Bruises
by Lucky Gun
Summary: AU. Because Loki's possession of one of the sharpest minds in SHIELD wasn't easy. In fact, it barely worked at all. A better take on Clint's forced defection, his return to the Avengers, and the aftermath. Contains whump, language, torture, and all the horrors of a POW. *COMPLETE*
1. Chapter 1

Title: Bruises – Chapter One

Author: Lucky Gun

Summary: Because Loki's possession of one of the sharpest minds in SHIELD wasn't easy. In fact, it barely worked at all. A better take on Clint's forced defection, return to the Avengers, and the aftermath. Contains whump, language, torture, and all the horrors of a POW. NO slash. AU.

A/N: This story will be a more in-depth look at Loki's possession of Clint. I can't imagine it was easy to take over the mind of a man who owed everything to SHIELD, who had nothing to live for outside of it. And Loki has always had a habit of underestimating. So here's my take on it. Please review!

* * *

It was his first attempt at using the scepter to turn an allegiance to his own. He'd been told it could be done, been promised in grandiose wordage that he could bend his enemy's army to his own will. He didn't discount the powers of the scepter, but he was Asgardian; while he knew the proper capabilities of magic and illusion, he better knew the strength of the individual when pressed against personal conviction.

But he was a general, a would-be-king, marching into battle and striking the drums of war. No time like the present to determine the truth of the scepter's power.

At first, very early in his first possession, he'd been pleased. The transfer of will worked perfectly, his victim's eyes shading an electric blue before a simple, gentle mental nudge had the man holstering some sort of weapon. Heartbeats turned into eternities, and he delved into the man's mind.

He found himself walking down a long hallway made of red marble, the walls wide and far apart. The floor was lined with streaked dirt, some parts rust-colored with what strongly resembled blood. Loki looked around, frowning as he took in the dozens of doors that lined the halls. Some were in immaculate condition, mahogany wood standing tall. Others worried him to a slight degree: cracks struck through the marble in wide, sweeping strokes, the framings were sagging under some monstrous weight, and chinks of wood were splintered from the door faces.

He walked the halls slowly, knowing he had time. He tried entry on no portal and instead stalked quietly through the man's mind. Every once in awhile, he'd pass a particularly strained door, a breeze from beyond it swirling through the hall, tickling Loki's hair against his nose. And he would hear things, see things, feel things.

* * *

"Barton, you've got to abort! Listen to me, there are chi-"

But Barton couldn't abort, not for anyone's sake. He knew the stakes. He'd been following his target for two weeks, and he'd seen more cruelty than he'd previously been able to imagine. So he clicked the earpiece, Coulson falling silent in his brain, and he strung a deadly arrow in his bow. He tracked the target as it exited the hotel, nodded to a valet, climbed into a waiting van. He waited until the van moved closer to an intersection, its brake lights about to illuminate the road behind it.

He released the arrow, gaze hard, and his aim was true as the world's turning. The bolt struck the gas tank, a charge igniting the fuel, the van exploding and taking the combustible arrow with it. He leaned back and tapped his earpiece again, his throat constricting.

"Mission completed. Target eliminated," he said as strongly as he could manage, and there was a heavy sigh as his handler processed the words. "Barton, there were..."

He knelt and ignored the sirens echoing through the late Parisian streets as he stowed his bow and quiver in his weapons duffel.

"Kids, I know. Three of them. Twin nine year old girls, and a four year old boy. His nieces and nephew. He was taking them home," he informed evenly, some small part of him cracking invisibly.

"...There may have been another opportunity in the future, Clint."

More than anything, the agent could hear his handler's sorrow for his own loss, his own struggle, and he shook his head sharply.

"SHIELD doesn't operate on maybes, sir. Mission accomplished with division-acceptable collateral damage. Heading to the extraction point now."

If Coulson heard him over the radio throwing up a few minutes later, his handler never said anything.

* * *

Loki stumbled backwards, away from the door, shaking his head sharply to dispel the taste of bile and the smell of burning flesh. He frowned hard, remembering abruptly the words he'd spoken when he'd caught the man in the first place.

"You have heart."

And so he did. Maybe too much of it.

Loki continued on, doors marking the passage of distance, and he continued to find himself assaulted by memories not his own.

* * *

"Goddamn it, Tasha, run! Get the hell out of here!" he shouted, despair coating his words as heavily as blood coated his leg.

Guilt and anger intermingled as he saw the flash of her red hair through the heavy jungle foliage, heading his way. Glaring at him, calling him an idiot and worse, she hauled him to his feet and surged through the underbrush with half his weight on her small frame. Then she was down, a hole in her side, and he half stood, half knelt in front of her as he loosed arrow after arrow onto their pursuers.

When SHIELD reinforcements spilled through the brush, automatic rifles spitting fire, he allowed himself the luxury of unconsciousness, his only fear being Natasha's safety, and the new and burning revelation of his own mental state: he was compromised.

* * *

Loki tilted his head, curious as to that memory, and he looked at the door carefully. It was strong and sturdy, with a small sliver of air weeding through an old fashioned keyhole. A protected memory, one he didn't allow himself access to often. And the woman...he could sense her presence everywhere in the long halls of the man's mind. Intrigued, he continued walking.

* * *

He watched her dance through the fight, body twisting in ways that shouldn't be legal, much less possible. She seemed to treat gravity as an option, a suggestion, and he could tell, even from a distance, that nobody told her what to do. So he lined up his arrow with her throat and waited for a break in the music. When it came, when the last of the Agency's men were down and she stared at the death she'd pirouetted through mindlessly, he found himself putting the arrow back in his quiver and tapping his earpiece.

"Coulson, I've got an idea that you're not going to like."

And then he walked to her, held out his hand, and smiled at her with something different than his usual, hawkish smirk.

"I'm Clint Barton, agent of SHIELD. I was sent to kill you. I'd like to offer you a job, instead."

* * *

This memory swirled from a door that, surprise, surprise, was actually open a crack. There was nothing different about the entry that Loki could see, but he could sense the man's sheer approval of the woman. A foreign expression crossed his mind – red on the ledger – and he raised an eyebrow, a true understanding of the man's mental stance gracing him.

"He operates on debts. They both do. How interesting," he murmured, and he continued to wander.

He walked through memories of pain, of fear, of betrayal, of hatred. He walked through the smell of gunpowder and the stench of such minor failure amplified to stellar heights. In some places, he was almost suffocating from repressed anger and suppressed fear. In others, he practically levitated through the air with peace and contentment.

He paused outside one door, though, that caught his attention sharply. At first glance, it was like any other door, slightly weathered but still intact. A longer look found reinforcements to the framing, kick plates on the bottom, three locks thrown against whatever was held inside. Deciding to gamble, he slowly, carefully undid each lock, his hand shaking slightly when he reached for the knob. Then he steeled himself and twisted it, abruptly finding himself sucked in a dark vortex of terror and desolation.

* * *

"No one's coming for you, Hawkeye. It's been, what? Ten weeks? Twelve? Can you even keep track anymore?" a voice whispered from the darkness, and Clint just sagged against the chains holding him to the cold stone wall, fighting not to choke on the blood that threatened to strangle him behind his gag.

The blindfold that had been on his face from day one scratched as he blinked uselessly against it. He knew he had to hold out, to wait. He knew they would come for him. It was simply a matter of time. He just had to wait. He tried not to groan as his multiple gifts from his captors made themselves known with his breathing. God knows how many bones were broken or sprained, how many ribs were bruised, how many contusions and burns were leaking what precious little blood he had left. He only knew that he had to keep his mouth shut. He'd tried to be smart in the beginning, tried to distract his captors as much as possible. But now? His tormenter removed the gag and he coughed and spit out blood and thick saliva before he managed to catch his breath through the pain.

"Agent 1128964 of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division. Clint Barton, codename Hawkeye. Agent 1128964..." he continued breathlessly, endlessly, just like he'd been trained to do.

Even when the blows rained down again, he managed to say nothing but that. When his captors tired of the game and his lack of response to their repeated requests for codes, information, agent locations, they tied him up their favorite way.

He was hanging upside down with chains around his bare feet and ankles, his hands shackled behind him to a heavy chain belt wrapped around his waist. His eyes were still blindfolded and his mouth gagged underneath a thick black bag that was zip tied firmly around his neck. That would have been almost bearable if they hadn't included the rather large tub of water at his shoulder level. If he curled up and lifted himself away from the water, he was able to breathe through the bag, in a fashion. But then his muscles would tremble, his abs would spasm, and he'd have to let himself back down into the water, holding his breath and fighting against panic while he waited for the trembling to cease long enough for him to pull himself back up. His captors were usually good about getting him down when he finally couldn't take anymore. He'd been cheerfully told he'd only died twice so far.

But upside down in a cold room, blind, gagged, alternating between slowly drowning and stressing open his wounds with his movements, is where they found him.

He'd barely heard their entrance, as he'd been underwater at the time, but when he felt hands on his stiff bare shoulders, his aching chest, he stilled. They should hit the winch, pull him up, move the tub, and drop him onto the ground headfirst. Instead, someone gently lifted the back of his head to above water level, and he inhaled rapidly, almost hyperventilating in his desperate fight for air. How long had he been under that time? Three minutes? Four? He had lost count. There was the sound of movement and voices around him, and he found himself on the ground, chains gone, a soft hand working a knife too close to his throat for comfort. But he waited patiently – he was good at that – and decided he could try for an escape. What else did he have to do with his time?

So the knife cut through the zip tie, the bag pulled from his head, and he surged into motion. Acting on instinct and hearing alone, he snagged the knife and rolled to his feet, tearing the gag from his mouth in the same move. He heard the sounds of surprise and grimaced desperately; there were more of them there than he'd thought. But then he ripped the blindfold off and light assaulted his eyes for the first time in three months.

He may have screamed as he forced his eyes to stay open, to accept the sensory information. It was mind over matter, and he thought he may have dealt with worse before. But everything around him was dark with long, wide flashes of searing white agony, and he flinched away from the light and scurried into a corner. He could hear someone speaking in low tones, but he couldn't make it out.

"Agent 1128964 of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division. Clint Barton, codename Hawkeye. Agent 1128964 of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division. Clint Barton, codename Hawkeye," he repeated softly, brokenly, as he curled into a ball and wrapped his arms around his head, protecting his eyes from the sights he had been so long denied.

He wanted to scream again as he realized that he might be permanently blind from so long in the dark.

So he did.

* * *

Loki growled fiercely as he pulled the door shut, snarling at the memory. He could feel the man's fear and pain in his own head, and it annoyed him. His first pet was becoming a rather heavy project. So he threw the bolts on the door again and stalked off, intent on finding the man's innermost self.

What he found instead was an image of the agent sitting on a single, metal, utilitarian chair in the massive and empty room the long hallway led to. There was light everywhere and nowhere, simultaneously, and Loki manifested his war armor as he walked towards the man. The agent was clad in the same clothes his physical body was wearing, and he sat silently, a black bow cradled carefully in his hands. Loki came to a stop in front of him and grinned at his first subject widely.

"So we find you, Clint Barton, the Hawkeye. You are mine to command now, the first of my rule, the reign of Loki," he bragged, and slowly, surely, the agent raised his head to the demigod before him, Loki's grin fading as he did so.

His face was full of fear and horror, but his eyes...dear God, his eyes.

They were a solid white.

"You have nothing you want, sir, and everything you'd sooner be rid of."

Then he moved, blindingly fast, and Loki found himself outside his mind again, back in the real world. He held the man's overly blue gaze for a moment, breathing heavily, but the eyes that stared back at him were calm and cold. Loki tested his control and grinned when the man shifted the way he'd told him to, stood silent the way he told him to, walked the way he told him to. So he decided, fine and very well, the man's reaction in his head had been a fluke, an initial response. Certainly nothing for Loki to be concerned about.

And then he silently ordered his new pet to shoot the enemy leader in the head.

He watched the bullet slam, not into his skull, but into the man's torso, and the bulletproof vest covering it. He felt a strong tug of dissension, anger, and fear over his link with his turned agent before it disappeared like a thief in the night, the startlingly blue eyes catching his for just a moment. It was a long enough space of time for Loki to see a bit of color leech from the irises. The demigod couldn't help but give a small shiver of uncertainty.

And then he wondered what the hell he'd gotten into.

* * *

End Chapter One


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Bruises – Chapter Two

Author: Lucky Gun

Summary: Because Loki's possession of one of the sharpest minds in SHIELD wasn't easy. In fact, it barely worked at all. A better take on Clint's forced defection, return to the Avengers, and the aftermath. Contains whump, language, torture, and all the horrors of a POW. NO slash. AU.

A/N: If you've stuck with the story, it gets better, I promise! Please leave a review – I need them to survive!

* * *

It took moments longer than millennia to reassert his control over the turned agent. It was the third time he'd had to shove the tip of the scepter against the archer's chest, none too lightly. The third time he'd watched those eyes coat with black before filling with blue. The third time he'd pulled a blade from some part of his own body with a harsh curse.

Frankly, he was getting annoyed.

Of all those he'd turned, Clint was the only one who'd resisted his power. He suspected the scientist, Selvig, he was called, was attempting to fight his control, but the man had nowhere near the mental fortitude of Barton. He'd walked the physicist's mind once and had found nothing corporeal, nothing tangible. The man's mind was as wild as the theories with which he dealt.

But Barton? He was growing a strong desire to kill him. But not yet, not yet. He needed him. He needed him _under control_!

When the group stopped to eat some food the demigod had conjured up, Loki stood at the end of the table and watched them with a small, paternal smile. They looked back at him, a sea of blue against the darkness of the industrial basement they occupied. Even the men who'd claimed to be enemies of SHIELD had been turned; given his difficulty in controlling Barton, he didn't want to take the chance of him breaking the hold and rallying fighters.

"Agent Barton, with me," he said sharply just as the man lowered his head to take his first bite of food in two days.

The agent frowned slightly but stood and walked towards him obediently. He followed the Asgardian to an adjacent room quickly, and as soon as they were out of sight of the others, Loki whirled and backhanded him across the room. Clint flew through the air and landed heavily at the base of one of the walls, groaning lowly. He coughed a few times as he rolled from his back onto his stomach, slowly leveling himself up, heedless of the split lip he now sported. He looked at Loki with confusion and cocked his head.

"Something on your mind, sir?" Barton asked simply, the way he would address any of his superiors.

Loki ground his teeth and lunged forward, one hand catching the agent's throat and hauling him up above his head, slamming him against the wall. Barton blinked against the sharp pain and Loki grabbed his short-cropped hair with his other hand, fingernails raking across his scalp and drawing blood.

"Look at me, you wretched creature!" he screamed in his face, and there was a slight hesitation before he obeyed.

Five minutes after the last touch of the scepter, and the man was already fighting past his constraints.

Without warning, Loki abruptly plunged into Barton's mind for the second time, but he froze when he looked around. Gone were the red marble walls and the dark wood doors. Instead, he found himself in what could have been a military facility, metal walls blending into metal floors with metal doors. Growling deep in his throat, Loki stalked down the hall towards the man's inner mind. He was surprised, at first, to encounter no swirling eddies of memory in the air. But he realized now that every door was fortified and locked, this time from the inside instead of the hall side.

"Hawkeye! Where are you, you sniveling coward?" he shouted as he stormed forward, war armor shimmering into existence as he walked.

The layout of the halls had changed, too. Instead of one long, wide, enormous hall leading to a much larger room at the end, he found himself in a silent, labyrinthine maze. Many of the walls were made of polished chrome, the reflections throwing him off. But then the agent's voice came from the same place the light did: everywhere and nowhere.

"What are your plans, Loki? What are you trying to do?"

The scepter in his hands shaking with his own anger, the Asgardian spun around and stared hard at the ceiling, as though Clint would suddenly appear there. After a moment he continued on his quest, taking no pains to mark his path, only concerned with finding the man's representative self and beating it out of existence.

"You know my plans, Barton. I will destroy this world! I will deadhead it like a precious plant! I will strip the non-desired from the desirable! I will rule all!" he snapped, and he thought he saw a dash of dark movement around the corner; he hurried after it.

Clint's voice came again, and Loki smugly realized he sounded exhausted. It was good to know his resistance wasn't without consequence.

"That was fairly obvious. You know SHIELD is going to corner you immediately with all their resources. What's your plan there? Are you going after the helicarrier?"

Loki turned around one corner and found himself at a dead end. Turning, he continued a different direction, quick steps giving to a jog as he realized he could hear something ahead of him.

"I'm not the one to take that ship down, Hawkeye," he called out.

Suddenly there was a sharp whistle and an arrowhead buried itself in Loki's chest, his armor just barely stopping the projectile from reaching his skin. He ripped it from his tunic on the run and dodged the next two arrows with a bit of illusionary magic. He could see the archer in the distance, an S shaped turn between them, the half inch of overlapping dead space between giving the man, apparently, more than enough room to shoot. He shot a blast off the scepter and leapt forward, the pained cry of his quarry spurring him on.

He suddenly found himself in front of the sprawled form of the man's inner self, his eyes squeezed shut against the pain reverberating from the hot wound in his shoulder. Loki stepped heavily on the hand holding the bow and heard a satisfying crack as Barton's breath hitched. Kicking the weapon away, the demigod snagged the back of his collar and surged through the corridors, dragging him, waves of sheer power extruding from the glowing orb on the scepter.

Slowly, the walls around them shifted until it was a small, narrow room with a single door. Jerking Barton up to a kneeling position, he stood behind him, one hand tight around his throat, the other using the scepter to point at the door.

"You see this, Barton? You see this door? What do you think is behind this door, Barton?" he breathed, his breath like poison.

Clint inhaled sharply as he tried to open his eyes, one hand on his burned shoulder. But he didn't need to see it. He could feel the horror and pain seeping from underneath the door.

"That's right. Everything you run away from, everything you try to forget, is behind here. And there you will stay," he whispered, satisfied with the shudder that rolled through the agent kneeling before him.

With one smooth motion, he opened the door with a wave of his staff and threw Barton into the darkness beyond. The door slammed shut, but not before he heard the first of the agent's tortured screams.

* * *

He was sitting quietly at the top of the building, his feet dangling over the edge, his eyes trained on the distant horizon. He heard heavy footsteps behind him and didn't turn. He knew that a tall, imposing man was standing behind him, one good eye trained on the bow he'd broken in half with his bare hands. There was his quiver, slit up both sides with the wicked looking knife now embedded in the roof. There was a smoldering circle of mess that had been, at one time, his beloved arrows.

But the men were both silent for a moment, looking at everything but each other, and then one spoke softly.

"I've never missed, sir."

Fury nodded his head and came to stand next to the archer, and after a moment, Clint spoke again.

"I didn't miss when I was first learning. Even if I didn't hit the target where I wanted to, I always, at least, hit the target. And this time? I missed," he said firmly, breath coming in long, slow pants.

Fury knelt down and ran a hand over his face, wishing to God that Coulson was out of the triage unit to deal with this. But the man was still getting checked out after the mission that had gone to hell in a hand basket while wearing gasoline underpants.

Finally, he looked over and asked bluntly, "Want me to tell you it's your fault? Cause even if it's not true, I can at least accommodate that."

Clint didn't even twitch, and the director of SHIELD groaned and sat down heavily, muttering something about age versus miles as he did.

He shrugged and said, "Things go wrong, Barton. Things go wrong all the time. So you think you fucked up? The world fucks up everyday."

Suddenly animalistic in speed and behavior, Clint jumped to his feet and stalked around the top of the roof, his eyes wild.

"Fucked up? I goddamn killed a little girl! I put six agents in the hospital! Our target is in the wind, our package – which had five million in unmarked bills and four vials of genetically altered smallpox – is missing, and you think this can just be written off as bad luck?" he shouted, hands clenched into fists so tight Fury would swear he saw blood.

But the man hadn't gotten to be the head of the most tactically advanced military and government division in the world by handling problems with kid gloves. And he damn sure wasn't going to wear them now. He surged to standing and grabbed Clint by his jacket and shoved him against the closest solid object, which was, of course, a very low barrier wall around the rooftop. Fury thought he heard a grunt as the man bent backwards over the brick, but he didn't pay it any attention.

"You think anyone else could've made that shot? You were a thousand yards up and thousand yards out. You were using a bow you'd never seen before with arrows far shorter than you've ever had to use. It was dark, there was no moon, there was a power outage, and did I mention the motherfucking hurricane that was blowing around you? You had orders from the goddamn Council to take that shot. It didn't pan out. That blood is on their hands, not yours," he snapped, exaggerating about the weather only slightly, irritated that he was letting his own anger at the council color his words to his agent.

Barton said nothing, but his face was slightly pale, and Fury hoped it was because he was realizing that he wasn't to blame.

"You did your job, Barton. You got down from your nest – how you dropped a thousand yards in less than a minute I don't want to know – and you got your team out of that car and you did what you could for the girl. If you hadn't moved as fast as you did maybe none of them would've made it. You did your job, Barton. This is all on the Council."

There were a few moments of silence, just them and the wind, and finally, Barton nodded slightly. "Yes, sir. I'll be fine. I just...need to think about this for a bit, sir."

Understanding the request for what it was, Fury nodded and let go of his jacket, straightening. He frowned at Barton when the man didn't stand as well, but the archer had always been slightly eccentric; he let him be.

"Report to me at eighteen hundred hours for a standard debrief, Clint. Get a drink before if you need it. Tell the mess to put it on my tab," he said, not unkindly, and added, "I'm going to go check on Coulson. Anything you want me to tell him?"

There was a flash of something in the agent's eyes, but it was gone too quick for the director to interpret. Then he shook his head slightly, all emotion gone, and Fury nodded, turning around and walking down the small slight of stairs that led to the inside of the building. He descended the floors a little less than easily, his knees cracking when he took a turn too fast, and he found his way to the medical bays within a half hour.

He walked slowly by the beds, speaking with each wounded agent, corroborating stories that fit the events, suggesting changes here and there when something seemed out of place for Agent Barton's future job security. In this way, he finally made his way to Coulson, who was staring at a nurse with the most agitation Fury had ever seen on his face; that is to say, there was very little emotion actually showing.

But when he saw his immediate superior, he straightened to attention, only a quick flash of pain crossing his features. Fury shook his hand and nodded to him.

"Mind telling me what happened out there? And you mind informing me as to why I don't have Barton's ass in a sling on your sole recommendation, Coulson?" the director asked softly as he moved to sit next to the agent.

Coulson nodded and inhaled shallowly; it seemed like he was pretty bruised up but relatively all right.

"The shot should never have been forced on him, boss, especially not with a weapon like that. In perfect conditions, with his own equipment, it still would've been fairly difficult for him. But in the middle of a tropical storm like that? At night? Civilian targets all around? It was a nightmare before it even started," Phil said, voice pitched to carry to Fury only.

The director nodded and watched while Coulson put his button down shirt over top his plain white tee shirt. With no prompting, the supervisor continued, "When we got there, he already knew the mission was shot, but the Council wouldn't let him out of it. So he got to his nest and he even had his primary weapon as a backup, but the Council insisted he used the other equipment to throw the scent off of SHIELD. So he waited. The target showed up and the wind was all over the place. There was a daycare that was a primary storm shelter next to where we parked, and the target was walking between us and the daycare."

Fury sighed deeply, seeing where this was going based on the reports he'd already collected.

Coulson shrugged a bit and said, "He asked our permission to move his aim a bit closer to us, to try and spare the shelter if the wind shifted the arrow. All of us but one agreed, and that guy has never really liked Barton. So he appealed to the Council one more time, said a prayer, and took the shot."

Coulson looked down at his hands in his lap and added, "It went south from there, boss."

"The arrow came right into the flank of our truck and exploded. The truck rolled, missed the target, and went straight into the shelter. Barton was there within the minute, pulling us out. Somehow he managed to get the truck shifted so he could get the civilian out from under it. She was already gone. He knew it immediately and went on to work on the other guys. Saved two of their lives, too. And then he coordinated the medivacs, the LEOs, everything. All with his chest laid wide open."

Fury frowned and turned slightly, his one good eye on his best handler. "What was that last part?"

Coulson stood and pulled his suit jacket on and looked around. "He did some sort of Lara Croft thing with his harness and rope. He tightened the harness close to maximum with his rappel line in between him and the harness. Slid straight down like that. Kid had more blood on him than in him. Is he out of surgery yet? I think I saw bone."

There was a pair of heartbeats between them as Coulson interpreted the look his boss was giving him.

He looked around again and asked, "He's not in surgery, is he?"

Fury cast his eyes heavenward and then started running, Coulson right on his heels. They made it to the stairs and started climbing, thankful that there were only a dozen floors or so to go. They made it to the door on the roof and slammed against it, only to ricochet back. Fury frowned and was about to try again when Coulson simply pulled his gun and fired off three quick shots, all of them hitting the latching mechanism.

The director looked at him and grinned, "I knew there was a reason I hired you."

But the levity passed within a moment, and they pushed their way outside, both glancing at the mangled bow and quiver that had been used to wedge the door shut. They came to the flat part of the roof and both of them spun wildly, looking for any sign of the archer. Phil found him first, his body freezing before he abruptly broke into a run, and Fury was on his heels.

Clint was laying on the low wall on his stomach, facing away from them, towards the horizon, his left arm and leg hanging over the edge of the building, his right hand clutching his cell phone. Coulson would read it later – there was a text to Natasha's private line, a simple goodbye in Russian – but he focused on the man in front of him. He grabbed the agent, a man he considered his friend, and rolled him over off the wall, catching him when he slipped to the ground. Fury was there, ordering medical help to the roof, and as Coulson unzipped the archer's jacket and gagged at the sight of just too much damn blood, Clint's eyes opened.

"Come on, kid, you're gonna be fine, all right? Just keep your eyes open," Phil demanded as he shifted and pressed the sopping jacket hard over the inch wide gash that traveled from Clint's right shoulder to his left hip. The archer groaned slightly and weakly tried to push his handler away, his eyes unfocused, his body shaking minutely.

"Just leave it, Coulson. Shouldn't...shouldn't be here. God, she was five years old," he whispered, tears pricking the edges of his gaze, and he didn't respond as Fury reached forward and grabbed his hands at the wrists, pinning them to the ground above his head.

When his breath hitched, though, Fury looked down and grimaced; the man's hand was sliced open, his glove in tatters, and Coulson had been right. He could see bone.

"Listen to me, Barton. You listening?" he snapped, not satisfied until the man's glazed eyes met his unsteadily. "If you think we're gonna let you bleed to death because of the Council's shitty call, you're an absolute moron. If Agent Romanoff was able to get through Russia, through the Soviets, you're damn well going to get through this. You understand?"

Barton blinked, his lids heavy, and he sighed softly as the roof door opened with a slam, the shouts of a medical team reaching his ears.

"Lacey Maria McAdams. Five years old. Born January seventeenth, two thousand eight. One of four siblings. Father died in car accident two years ago. Mother working three jobs to take care of the family. They went to the shelter because Lacey was scared of thunderstorms and her mother wanted her safe. And instead I blew an SUV onto her. And you want me to get through this?" he whispered, eyes on his boss, and Fury did his best not to swallow hard.

"Didn't say want, Barton. Said will."

* * *

Loki stared hard at the agent's eyes, satisfied when the man didn't move in his hold. The orbs looking back at him were a fiery blue, the irises spread out from his pupils like an oil slick on a wet highway. And when he nudged him mentally with an order to get the materials the scientist needed through any means, he felt nothing but solid acquiescence.

He dropped him to the ground, watching as the man removed his jack and abruptly began suiting up. He asked, "What do you need?"

Barton stalked out of the room, past the eating group, and grabbed his bow from his case, snapping it open with one hand. He turned his gaze back to Loki and the demigod was pleased to see the color hadn't dimmed a bit.

"I need a distraction. And an eyeball."

* * *

End Chapter Two


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Bruises – Chapter Three

Author: Lucky Gun

Summary: Because Loki's possession of one of the sharpest minds in SHIELD wasn't easy. In fact, it barely worked at all. A better take on Clint's forced defection, return to the Avengers, and the aftermath. Contains whump, language, torture, and all the horrors of a POW. NO slash. AU.

A/N: The last chapter started the AU a bit, and it's going to get more AU, but it's still going to keep with the overall feel the movie gave. We've got a jumpy POV area here, so heads up.

* * *

Loki paced slowly around his cell, idly comparing his quarters with the prison wards back on Asgard. He eventually decided that they both had their pros and cons. Both were state of the art, intelligently designed, and spacious. Of course, Loki wasn't sure anyone on his home world did sarcasm much better than the man who reminded him like his father in sight – or lack thereof.

Sitting on the long bench along the wall and sighing lightly, Loki made himself comfortable. He was sure he was being watched by observation devices (cameras, he believed they were called), and he was sure those cameras were being watched by agents, and those agents were being watched by their handlers.

And the one called Fury was watching them all.

Smiling slightly, the demigod closed his eyes and dove through the power within him to reach his pet agent, his grin increasing when he realized how close the quinjet was getting. Soon, he'd be able to wipe that self-satisfied smirk off his brother's face. Soon.

Then a whisper of doubt crawled through him, and the smile faded. It had come from Barton.

Rage boiled through him and he jumped quickly into the other man's mind, the distance meaningless to him. He could sense the man's physical body was sitting at the back of the jet, hands tense around the case holding his bow, his consciousness fighting desperately with his subconsciousness. He supposed he should've been expecting it. The man had become increasingly resistant since he'd found out the plans Loki had for the helicarrier. But it was also getting a little easier to control him. All he had to do was shift everything inside of him, remake his mind, and lock him up with the most horrendous memories he could find. And this time would be no different.

He pushed past the defenses that Clint was becoming more skillful at raising with more than minimal effort. Stumbling into the outer sanctums of his mind, Loki whipped around and took in his surroundings. He'd seen marble halls, metal walls, an exotic forest with trees taller than heaven, and on the last occasion of mind-walking, he'd been in a huge, empty expanse with invisible trap doors everywhere. This time, he was surprised to find himself in an exact replica of the helicarrier.

"So this is your last effort, Barton? I've found you in every other landscape you've conjured up. Why do you take me here? You believe this to be a safety for you? I will find you again, Hawkeye," he threatened in harshly whispered tones as he stormed through the empty hallways.

"I will find you and crush you with the worst things you can remember. I will not stop until you are dead, Barton."

There was a shot from somewhere he couldn't see, the arrowhead grazing his arm, drawing blood. The attack jerked him partially to awareness of the real world, and he found himself standing in the center of the cell. He was about to press back into the man's mind when he realized he wasn't alone.

Putting as cocky a smile as he could on his face, he turned and looked at the redhead standing on the other side of the glass.

"There's not very many people who can sneak up on me," he informed, half-aware of a phantom shot coming from a room he wasn't in. She didn't seem to notice his distraction and merely gave him a heavy look.

He sunk back into the fight inside Barton's mind, aware he was bleeding from multiple points now. He yanked one arrow from his shoulder and twirled it on bloody fingers.

"Your Natasha is talking to me right now, Clint. She's saying love is for children. Does she not know you love her?" he asked rhetorically as he walked slowly through the empty hull.

There was long silence before, amazingly, the agent began to laugh. It was a cold, crazed laugh, and it echoed everywhere.

"The Black Widow's got you in her sights, Loki. You might want to consider offering a surrender."

Abruptly tired of the game, the demigod waved a hand, cutting part of the illusion with a thought.

"How shall I kill her, Barton, when the time comes? Shall I stab her? Shoot her? Slit her beautiful throat?" he asked harshly as the disconnected part of the ship fell away silently, falling into the endless sea around them.

There was a clatter behind him and Loki turned, eyes searching as he continued taunting, "Should I simply behead her? Should I excise her bones from her body, saving her skull for last?"

Another shot caught him from behind, tearing through his cape. There was more force in that shot, and Loki hid a smile.

"Maybe I should enslave her and sell her? There are many races out there who would pay handsomely for such a fiery woman. Oh, how she'd please them in their bedchambers," he added, and this time, there was a shout of fury that accompanied a thrown knife.

Loki jerked his head back but not quickly enough, and he felt the blade cut through the delicate skin on his cheek.

Snarling, he whirled and put himself back in the real world, his words echoing through Barton's mind as he suddenly unleashed his venom on the woman interrogating him.

"I won't touch Barton. Not until I make him kill you! Slowly, intimately. In every way he knows you fear. And then he'll wake just long enough to see his good work. And when he screams I'll split his skull!"

The attack was quick and vicious, the force behind it staggering, but Loki had fought worse. He'd fought stronger. He'd fought better. And no human archer from Earth was going to beat him. He returned fully to Barton's mind, grabbing the arm that was coming at him again, the knuckles wrapped with some heavy metal cable, tearing at the demigod's skin. He ducked the next punch, grabbing that wrist as well, and a burst of power radiated out from him, leveling the man's helicarrier illusion.

Panting through the exertion of the short fight, Barton glared at the Asgardian openly; his eyes were no longer white, nor as blue-green as they normally were, but the color was slowly getting darker.

"When are you going to realize that you cannot beat me?" Loki asked, his voice almost gentle, and the agent ducked his head, chuckling tiredly.

Looking back up, he gave a cheeky grin and asked, "Which of us is bleeding, again?"

All facade of gentility disappeared from the demigod and he shoved Barton to the ground, an illusionary scepter appearing in his hands.

He bent over the man and screamed, "I am Loki! And yet you dare to strike me with your human weapons and your simple words? You are nothing compared to me! Nothing!"

His voice was like a blade, and Clint groaned as his skin tore open under the assault. He coughed hard, choking on blood that welled up from somewhere, and he gasped as he rolled over, spitting it out. The blood splattered on the plain white floor, and Loki waved his hand again. There were suddenly on a small platform a few hundred feet above a dark, black sea. The agent looked over the edge closest to him, blinking at the frozen wind that screamed around him.

Loki grabbed the back of his vest, the ribs emblazoned with the SHIELD logo, and hauled him to standing. He turned the man harshly, staring deep into his eyes, a horrible smile on his face.

"This is the last I shall see of you, Agent Clint Barton. You will do your job. You will bring your home to the ground. You will kill Agent Romanoff in whatever horrible way you can conceive. You will destroy my enemies until they finally destroy you. Is there any last plea from the Hawkeye to the god who has unmade him?" he asked softly, his toxic words dripping with acid.

Clint blinked, ignoring the maelstrom around them and the sharp memory he could feel lurking in the water. He breathed heavily through his own pain and fear and swallowed strongly.

Finally, he nodded and said, "If I go, I'm sure as hell taking you with me."

With that, he leapt forward and wrapped his arms around Loki as he plunged over the side of the platform.

* * *

"_No, no, no! Come on, man! Why did you do that? You idiot! I'm the one wearing the Kevlar, not you, Mitchell! Why the hell did you do a damn fool thing like that?" Barton demanded of the downed man who was curled around his gut, protecting the bullet wound within his stomach. _

_He didn't have much more time than that, because then the thugs were there again, a simple pack of gang bangers with guns in their hands and something to prove. His bow was still in the truck, but his quiver was on his back, and he pulled two arrows and wielded them like clubs. One thug came in with brass knuckles, and he struck the man's wrist and the side of his neck to drop him, whirling to catch the next attack._

"This is what I'm rescuing the world from, Barton," Loki's voice whispered seductively through the darkness, and the agent shivered slightly as he watched the memory play out, his eyes never leaving his handler's shaking body.

"_Can you move, Mitchell? Hey, Mitchell! James!" Hawkeye called, cursing when the other man didn't do more than groan. _

_He spun and caught an incoming chain, grunting when the length wrapped around his wrist and the end slammed into his forearm. He grabbed the chain with his caught hand and pulled the thug forward, smashing his forehead into the guy's face, satisfied with the feel of cartilage breaking under the blow._

"You couldn't save this man, could you? All you could do was watch him bleed. All you could do was watch him die."

_Clint rolled the man over and blinked around the blood flowing over his vision; one of the gang members had gotten in a lucky strike with a knife. But he was down, an arrow through his throat. Now all that was left was getting Mitchell to a hospital. _

"_Come on, Jimmy. Remember you said you'd give Fury my head on a plaque if I called you that again? Make good on it, Jimmy-boy," he ordered, but the desperation in his tone faded as he finally got a good look at the wound. _

_The man was already dead. He just didn't know it yet._

Barton flinched as he felt Loki materialize beside him, his eyes fixed on his past self's struggle to put pressure on the wound.

"You think you did him a kindness by prolonging his death? All you did was extend his pain."

_Clint looked around for his cell phone, scrabbling over the asphalt to get it. They weren't even supposed to be here. They were supposed to be on the other side of town, scoping out an arms dealer. But they'd gotten a call to check on the man's warehouse first. So they did. Against all protocol, Barton's handler, James Mitchell, had gone along for the ride. And then they'd been attacked by some faceless gang. And now Jimmy was bleeding out in front of him._

"You can't stop things like this," Barton whispered to the Asgardian beside him, no hesitation in his voice. "This is our nature. We don't succumb to rule, we dismantle it, and your reign would be no different."

_Clint didn't see Mitchell's eyes open again, the man bleeding out over the twenty seven minutes it took for an ambulance to get to that side of town. He stood to the side as the medics worked on the fallen man, realizing, too late, that cops had shown up as well. He simply gave them a once over before giving a small, slight nod of goodbye to his late friend and disappearing into the night._

"You think I will fall to such petty things as guns and knives? Do you know me so poorly, Barton?"

_Fury watched as one of his best agents destroyed the large gym, his own heart heavy. Machines were overturned and free weights were scattered all over the padded floor. Mitchell had been well liked. More than that, he'd been the one who'd brought Clint in from the cold, who'd show him something other than the betrayal and fear he'd known his entire life. And now he was dead. Dead because Clint didn't follow procedure. Because Clint didn't follow orders._

Barton wanted to turn away from the memory, but something held him there, some force of will not his own. He knew it was Loki, knew those eyes were following his every betrayed emotion, but he couldn't stop himself.

"I know you think you're a god."

_The director walked carefully over the mangled mats, his good eye taking in the damage and calculating cost. He hated his job sometimes. _

"_You think you caused enough trouble for one day?" he asked the agent, choosing to ignore the bottle of clear liquor in his hand. _

_Barton looked up at him, eyes unfocused, and he slurred, "Think I caused enough for the rest of my life, sir. I quit." _

_Fury responded immediately, "Request denied." _

_Barton blinked and looked up at him, clearly shocked. He obviously expected to be forcefully resigned for the infraction, if not worse. _

"_So, what? Fifty lashes in the town square at noon?" _

_Fury rolled his eye at the words and sighed heavily, sitting down on the bench beside the agent._

"This man shall be the last to die, Barton. I'll make him watch as your world burns to ash. Do you think he deserves that? Is that any less than what you deserve?" Loki murmured in the agent's ear, making Clint shy away as much as he was able to.

"_You're on back to back to back solo missions to Siberia, doing long-range, extended recon on some remnant Hydra bases. You're doing level five reporting; everything needs to be documented to the highest level. You'll be paying for these damages out of pocket, and we're docking your pay for the next six months. You will be required to attend Agent Mitchell's funeral in uniform, and you will be presenting the flag to his daughter. _

_After the funeral, after Siberia, you will start again with your new handler, a guy by the name of Phil Coulson. You'll be his shadow. You will go on whatever assignments he goes on. And you will not have any partner missions with Agent Romanoff until you have proven, without a doubt, to both myself and Agent Coulson, that you're responsible enough to be in that style of mission. Understood, Agent Barton?"_

Clint squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled sharply, remembering that year as the hardest he'd ever faced; stripped of the only person who knew him as well as he knew himself, he almost hadn't made it. But she was waiting for him when his plane landed at Dulles, the frozen arctic tundra becoming a memory, and she'd socked him in the jaw and told him to never do such a stupid thing again. Coulson had held out his hand and informed him breezily that he hoped to get to work with Barton for at least five minutes longer than his predecessor. He remembered smiling and really feeling like he was home.

He turned to Loki and snapped, "You are going to lose, sir."

But the smile the other man gave him was far from defeated.

"You think that now, Agent Barton. But while you dealt with the death of one partner, how are you going to deal with the death of another?"

Clint's eyes widened and for one split, awful second, he saw what Loki saw: Coulson pointing a weapon at the demigod, unaware of the magic, the strength he was going up against. And he could feel what Loki was plotting: a quick conjure of an afterimage, a rapid teleportation, a single move with the deadly end of the scepter.

The death of Coulson, something that Hawkeye couldn't let happen.

With a loud shout, Clint jumped at Loki, engaging him in abrupt, fierce close quarters combat. He had to distract him, had to keep him preoccupied. He laid Loki out with a solid right hook, the Asgardian sprawling to the shadowy floor. He jumped on top of him, straddling his chest, his knees pinning the other man's arms to his side, his fists landing blow after blow on every piece of unprotected skin he could find.

Then there was a shock of heat and anger, and he suddenly found him on his back in his own mind, red marble erect, wooden doors sagging, the dirt floor smelling sweet and dry. He blinked up at the ceiling and exhaled slowly, feeling every ache that had been inflicted on him. He rolled over onto his stomach, looking up, and found himself at the end of the long halls of his mind. Swallowing down what was probably a mixture of blood, bile, and fear, he tried to stand, immediately falling back down to his hands and knees. He blinked against the sudden dizziness that rolled over him like a heavy wave, the urge to just sleep, to let everything go, so tempting.

But his eyes flew open as he realized it was _Loki's_ voice telling him to sleep, cajoling him to give up, and he shook his head harshly, grateful for the pain it brought. He had to focus. He had to get back to where he was supposed to be. So he started crawling forward on his elbows, his left leg dragging, and he distantly remembered Loki shooting it with his scepter one time. He could feel beads of blood slipping down his chest, and he wondered if the physical wounds he'd been dealt inside his mind translated to his body, and vice versa.

So he crawled, his left wrist giving out every other motion, his breath catching in his lungs as they didn't quite fill properly. He skirted past the doors that he knew were weakened, promising himself he'd repair them soon. After this...what else could phase him? Dear God, how many people had he killed under Loki's orders? How many innocent people had died?

But he couldn't think of that. Not yet. It wasn't safe to do that next to so many compromised securities. He had to get back. He had to.

* * *

End Chapter Three


	4. Chapter 4

Title: Bruises – Chapter Four

Author: Lucky Gun

Summary: Because Loki's possession of one of the sharpest minds in SHIELD wasn't easy. In fact, it barely worked at all. A better take on Clint's forced defection, return to the Avengers, and the aftermath. Contains whump, language, torture, and all the horrors of a POW. NO slash. AU.

A/N: If you've stuck with it so far I've gotta assume you like it. Go ahead and keep reading – there aren't any new updates here. Just AU, no slash, and buncha awesomeness. And don't worry: I don't really kill people in my stories. Usually.

* * *

Fury strode over the bridge, frustrated. He knew the Hulk was missing and Loki had escaped, but so far, they'd been having trouble finding out anything about Barton. Cameras had captured him leading the assault team into the helicarrier after the one engine had blown, but he'd disappeared after that. He had been avoiding the cameras – that much the director knew for sure – but the fact that he hadn't appeared to do anything dangerous since was alternatively worrying the man and giving him hope.

"Sir? We've got confirmation of Agent Barton outside the brig, heading port side," one tech shouted, his fingers flying over his keyboard.

Fury jogged over and stared hard at the image that had been pulled up. It was a grainy image, the electronics in the blown engine frying parts of the camera circuits. But the man walking steadily down the hallway couldn't be anyone but the missing agent.

Who else wore a quiver and carried a bow?

Fury's eye narrowed and he rewound the short clip, staring hard. He played it back in slow motion, taking in every detail.

He frowned at the screen and snapped, "Get all the Avengers up here. Now! Get Agents Romanoff and Coulson as well. And get a medical team up here. We might need them. Call a code yellow."

The tech glanced up at his superior, a matching frown on his face as he asked, "Sir?"

Fury nodded towards the screen and explained, "He just walked past a control cluster for our dry ballast and didn't even glance at it; if he was trying to cause some damage, that would've been a good place to start. He might be fighting Loki's influence. And call the medics a hunch; if there's anything I know about Barton, it's that he never does a bad thing halfway."

The tech nodded and tapped the microphone button in front of him, keying it for private earpieces only.

"All members of the Avengers Initiative to the bridge. I repeat, all members of the Avengers Initiative to the bridge. Agent Coulson to the bridge. Codename Black Widow to the bridge. Medics to the bridge. This is a code yellow. Codename Hawkeye has been spotted in sector C, level two, starboard side, heading port side. I repeat, this is a code yellow. Do not engage codename Hawkeye. Repeat, do not engage."

Fury stayed standing behind the tech, watching the screen as the cameras tracked the man's movements. The tech's call had been worth it; the halls were practically clear as the man stalked down them. A pair of oblivious mechanics made the mistake of turning right into the possessed agent, and Fury watched the rapid fight carefully. He watched as Barton dropped and spun in one fluid motion, knocking both men to the ground in one move. He turned around and delivered a roundhouse, this one catching the men across the face and knocking them out. He gave them a cursory glance and straightened, continuing on his way.

The SHIELD director grinned and nodded. "That's my boy."

The tech gave him another questioning look, one that Fury was quickly tiring of. "He could've killed them. Very easily. He didn't. He's pulling his punches for some reason."

A voice behind him would've startled him if he hadn't been expecting it.

"You think he's trying to beat Loki, boss?" Coulson asked, watching the same video feed. Fury nodded, glancing over his shoulder at the agent. He raised an eyebrow at the small patch of red on the man's arm.

"Problems?"

Coulson shrugged a bit and said, "The guy tried to run me through with his magic stick. For some reason, he stumbled, missed, and after I shot him with what is soon to be my personal weapon, he ran off cursing Barton. Think he's making it difficult for him?"

Fury glanced fondly at the camera feed and asked, "You think he ever makes a bad guy's day easy?"

The feminine voice that flowed over them was calm and controlled. Perhaps a little too controlled.

"Is he injured?" Natasha asked, kneeling on the catwalk to get a better view of the screen.

Coulson stared at the feed as the man climbed a set of stairs, effectively bringing him within fifty yards of the bridge. He watched the agent's moves, the way he held himself, and compared it with everything else he'd observed over the years.

"He's got a few cracked ribs, maybe one or two broken. His left ankle is sprained but you wouldn't know it unless you were looking for it. He's got a concussion; you can tell by the way he's tilting his head and avoiding walking directly under the lights. He's got superficial wounds on his arms and some lacerations on his scalp. He's got a few minor burns on his chest, as well as some heavy bleeding from that area. And I'd bet card number seven one two of my antique Captain America trading card collection that he hasn't eaten, drank, or slept since he was taken," he finished, nodding to himself.

It was a few moments later when he noticed only the tech was looking at him weirdly. "It's my job, son. These guys are trained to get rid of any limits; they often can't tell they're hurt themselves. What did you think handlers did?"

A light chuckle behind them had them turning as the newly arrived, suitless Tony Stark grinned and said, "Handlers? Well, I thought they, you know, handled things. Like melons, or trout. Trout's good. Or balls. You know, those bouncy things kids play with. They go up and down and up and they don't come back down again if they're coated with Flubber or some other highly elasticized polymer. Eh...what were we talking about?"

Steve Rogers rolled his eyes and nodded at the group, casting his glance at Thor, who was sidling up, nursing a broken lip.

"Your Hulk is quite the match, Man of Fury!"

The director cocked his head and said, "He's your Hulk now, Thor. We'll figure out where the doctor landed after we deal with Hawkeye. What's the plan, Romanoff?" His deference to her was an obvious nod to her close knowledge of her partner's modus operandi.

She looked at him, no emotion in her dark gaze, and she gave the feed another long stare. Finally, she nodded and said, "He's probably coming for me; Loki all but promised that. Give me room to move and secure the exits once he gets in. I'll keep him from going after anyone else. If I don't, Captain, Thor, it's your job to do so. But do not engage him unless he takes me down first."

Tony frowned slightly and asked, "And if he, you know, kills you?"

Natasha looked back over at the screen and breathed, "He won't."

Redirecting her attention to the group, she ordered, "Thor, block the door after he comes in. Steve, protect the helm. I'll try to keep him away from the techs, Director, but you may want to have a general evac on standby. If he sets off one of those explosive arrowheads..."

Fury nodded slightly and tapped his own earpiece so that his voice boomed through the room.

"This is a priority three evacuation order for the bridge. I need you up and out and down the side halls. Hold position at one hundred yards and do not reenter unless I tell you to. This is a priority three evacuation: essential personnel only. Let's go, people," he ordered, satisfied when the men and women around him instantly began moving towards the side doors.

They had all been well trained, all hand picked for the post on the helicarrier by the best and most trusted officers Fury knew. So they obeyed immediately, locking terminals, grabbing the thumb drives that held sensitive information, and filing orderly out of the large room.

Natasha nodded and watched as the team position themselves around the room, Tony glancing around sheepishly. "Probably would've been better if I'd left my suit on, huh? What should I do?"

The Russian-born agent jerked her head to the side. "You should probably stay out of the way. If Barton goes for any of the terminals and manages to get anything uploaded, we might need you to counter it."

The genius nodded and moseyed over towards the screen that still had Galaga paused. He turned as he walked and asked, "So, what, you're just gonna pull a Fight Club on Cupid?"

Managing not to bristle at the name for her best friend, her partner, Natasha rolled her shoulders and checked her equipment as she moved to the center of the bridge.

"You've got no idea who you're talking about, Stark," she stated blandly, and Tony grinned a bit, successful in raising her ire.

"You mean Legolas? The man with a bunch of pointy sticks he throws at people?"

Natasha rolled her eyes, but the director gave the billionaire a hard stare.

"The man is a grandmaster marksman, an accomplished acrobat, an exceptional fencer, and far more proficient in hand to hand combat than almost everyone on this boat. What can you do?"

Tony shrugged and said, "I can blow things up. Usually only once, though. Cause, you know, blowing something up twice isn't nearly as fun as blowing it up the first time in a really impressive way. So this guy's serious business, I take it? I mean, I haven't seen him beyond little black and white security photos showing him killing innocent guards, stealing stuff. We sure he's not coming to blow us all up?"

Steve glanced at Natasha and said, "I hate to admit it, but Stark's right. We can't just let him walk in here uncontested. We don't even have any proof that he's fighting Loki."

Thor frowned and said, "It would grieve me to fight a friend, but if my brother still has control over his mind, there may be no way to avoid it."

Natasha cast a side look at Fury, who shrugged minutely.

Finally, she nodded and said, "You want to try and slow him down, feel free."

Coulson's head dipped a little and he crossed his arms as he moved to stand next to his boss.

Watching the group change positions, he asked softly, "Sure this is a good idea? We both know Agent Romanoff is the only one who knows him well enough to beat him."

The director nodded and said, "After this, they'll all know it, too."

A few moments later, there wasn't anymore time for talking.

If they were hoping for a grand entrance, they were disappointed. That's not the way snipers operate, after all. Instead, Barton slowly pushed his way through the doors and stepped into the room. He paused, his blue eyes taking in the bridge and its occupants thoroughly. His bow was in his right hand, fingers loose around it, and his gaze tracked over Natasha without even acknowledging her presence. Instead, his eyes locked onto a terminal beside her, the open connection ports drawing him.

Tony saw where he was looking and headed towards, and jumped up, saying, "No! Bad! Very bad! That's central access for the ship; big bad!"

Thor and Steve immediately started forward, but Coulson and Natasha moved as one, stopping them.

"Wait! Something's wrong," the female agent said softly, her eyes focused.

Coulson nodded as he followed the possessed agent's motions, frowning.

Clint's movements were getting less polished, less refined, his skin paling before their eyes, the bruises around the blue darkening. His cracked lips opened a bit as he gasped silently, a bit of crimson slipping down the corner of his mouth and down his chin. His bow suddenly dropped with a clatter as he stumbled, one arm coming up to cradle his ribs, his breath sawing in harsh pants. Natasha stared at him and swore she could see some of the blue in his eyes fading away.

"Oh my God...Loki's going to kill him!" she snapped, and she ran forward, heedless of whatever danger, her only thought to rescue her partner, her friend, everything she ever had to live for.

He stumbled again, this time right into her, and she heard the collective inhalation from the other men as she wrapped her arms around him.

"It's okay, Clint. It's all right. What are you trying to do?"

He glanced at her, eyes wild, and he looked back at the computer, more blood spilling over his lips.

"Istanbul."

She jerked her head up, shocked at the guttural syllables, and she looked over at Phil, his hands flying over a keyboard on a borrowed terminal.

"Okay, Istanbul. Is that where Loki is? Where the Tesseract is? Is that where Doctor Selvig is? What's in Istanbul, Clint?" she rambled desperately as she half-helped, half-impeded his progress towards the computer.

She could feel the blood from his chest soaking her arm, and she hated the fact that the color was the same as her hair.

"We know he's opening a portal – is that where it's going to be located?"

Coulson's voice to the side broke her train of thought. "Istanbul, March, 2008. Remember that mission? It got shot to hell."

Natasha frowned and looked over at where her her handler was staring at the computer, nodding.

"When he was captured, you tracked him by following maps he left you; this was when he was on that Mummy Returns kick."

Natasha glanced over her shoulder at the computer behind her, knowing it contained a GPS mapping system. She looked back at her partner, who was staring over her shoulder, focused. She exhaled sharply and let him take a step towards the terminal.

"Okay, Clint. You have something to show us? Show us."

_He rolled onto his back as he panted heavily, the wounds he'd been able to ignore until then flaring to life with a bright blue hue. He groaned, knowing it was Loki, knowing the demigod was trying to take away everything he was. He couldn't let it happen. He had to get back. He had to._

Clint abruptly pushed her away, falling to his hands and knees, his ankle suddenly rolling under him. She hesitated to move back to him, completely freezing as he drew a knife from underneath his long archer's glove.

_No, not yet! He couldn't give up. He was so close. He could see the room, he could see the chair, the image of Loki dominating it, twisting his mind against him. He had to get there. He had to!_

He moved rapidly, as though he didn't have a single injury, attacking her, blade slashing through the air. She compartmentalized her emotions and flipped backwards, instinct causing her to land in the splits, Barton's knife whistling through the air where her throat would've been. She drew her own knife and waited for him to attack again, parrying it with her blade when he did. He wasn't concerned with finesse or tactic. He just attacked her mindlessly, blocking her own strikes when she dared to make them.

_He could feel the dirt of the hall give way to the cold stone of the room, and he relentlessly dragged himself forward, single-minded in his focus. He sensed what Loki was doing, could almost feel the blade in his hand, and he gagged as he smelled blood not his own._

Natasha winced as the sharp edge cut through her suit and bit into her arm, but it was minor enough it didn't slow her down. Instead she kept the fight going, trying to figure out what to do. She could wear him down, break through his defenses, and knock him out, possibly. But she knew he was hurting, had a concussion, and she didn't know what punching him really hard in the head would do to him. So she kept deflecting his attacks, jabbing him a few times with an empty fist, unfamiliar desperation clouding her senses.

_Then he was there, summoning the strength to stand and tackle Loki from the chair. The demigod fell, and they rolled across the room, grappling. He felt a quick shock of pain in his chest, the thickness of the agony choking him, and he faltered._

She didn't know what happened. She had been locked against him, their blades scraping, his free hand stopping hers from reaching a pressure point in his neck. And then he started, the blue eyes staring at her fading until only a black pupil against a white background remained, and he slipped. And her knife plunged into his chest, into that one, tiny break in the Kevlar, the place she didn't even know she'd been aiming for. Time seemed to freeze for a moment, and she stared at her hand with shock.

He blinked a few times, some blue seeping back into his gaze, and he whispered, "Tasha?"

_He watched as Loki raised a deadly but ornate knife, preparing to plunge it into his chest where it was already burning, the Asgardian's gaze uncontrolled. _

_"Your world falls today, Hawkeye, and I will have your woman for my own, and turn her into the consort of a god!"_

"No, Clint! Oh God, Clint!" she murmured as she slowly crashed to the ground with him, her bloody knife buried in his chest.

She could feel the quiet daze cover the group as his blood spread over the floor, his quiver angling him slightly to the side. She knelt over him and pressed down around the knife wound, leaving the blade in. His eyes trailed over her face and he blinked hard, blue and white shifting in his gaze. He lifted a bloody hand and gently, carefully traced a bruised finger over her cheek, aware of nothing but her.

His teeth were red as he whispered, "Been...compromised, Tasha."

_Barton stared up at the demigod, every door of his mind abruptly flying open, the air around them swirling with all his memories, good and bad. Laughter mingled with screams, explosions shook the room, and the gale intensified._

She shook her head, praying desperately for the medics the director had called to arrive, and she waved everyone else back as she felt them starting to close in.

"Loki never fully compromised you, Barton. You didn't kill Fury. You stopped him from killing Coulson. You didn't bring down the ship. He never had you compromised."

He gave a faint grin, his eyes closing slightly, and he choked, "Not Loki. You."

_The blade crashed down on him, multiplying the pain that already soaked through him, and he cried out, his voice loud as the wind abruptly ceased. And he saw the laughing eyes of the crazed man above him turn back towards the chair standing untouched in the middle of the room, intent on finishing what he started: breaking Tasha. Blowing up his home. Destroying the world._

If Natasha could cry, she would have. Instead, she blinked back the tears she swore she'd never let fall and whispered, "You've compromised me too, Clint."

He smiled a little bit more for a moment, then he grimaced as his eyes shifted shades again, peaking at a level of blue she was coming to despise. He dropped his hand from her face and gripped the hilt of the knife still buried in his chest.

"He didn't think I knew. Thought he had hidden it away. But I can see his target," he gasped, blinking quickly, trying to fight the darkness encroaching on his vision.

"Forty point seven five, negative seventy three point nine seven," he said as strongly as he could.

He didn't see Tony's eyes light up, or Thor's visage grow suddenly determined. He didn't see Steve duck his head with anger. He didn't see Fury and Coulson swallow hard against his movements. All he could see was Natasha, his Tasha, staring down at him with unshed tears in her eyes. He said nothing else, did nothing else, except twist the blade in his chest.

_...And he twisted the blade in his chest. Loki whirled, surprise and fear on his face, and Clint coughed through the blood that flooded his throat._

"_You lose, Loki."_

* * *

End Chapter Four


	5. Chapter 5

Title: Bruises – Chapter Five

Author: Lucky Gun

Summary: Because Loki's possession of one of the sharpest minds in SHIELD wasn't easy. In fact, it barely worked at all. A better take on Clint's forced defection, return to the Avengers, and the aftermath. Contains whump, language, torture, and all the horrors of a POW. NO slash. AU.

A/N: I PROMISE, I'm not killing Clint! What do I look like, a sadist? ...All right, don't answer that one. I promise this isn't a death fic. Just stick with it. Trust me, I'm a doctor. He he. Or maybe it is a death fic. Eh, who reads these author's notes, anyway?

* * *

Everything happened quicker than she could follow. One moment, she was watching the life seep out of her partner's body, the spark dying in his still-too-blue eyes, blood bubbling in his mouth. The next, she was in a long hallway, cracked red marble all around, the ground jagged, wooden doors shattered and cavernous maws beckoning her. She looked up and instinctively ducked from where she started standing; there was a heavy mist floating at the tall ceiling, rainbows of color flowing through it as the air moved. She looked around again, shocked to see someone else standing next to her.

"Thor? What's going on? Where are we?" she asked breathlessly, nausea tipping her stomach.

He gave her a sideways look and answered, "We are in the Hawk's mind. Loki is destroying him from within. If we can stop my brother, the power of my people may yet save the man. But we've little time. Hurry!"

He immediately started jogging down the hallway and she effortlessly kept up with him, pushing the strangeness of the situation from her mind.

They leapt over chunks of marble and wood scattered over the hallway. She stared at the trail they were following through the rubble, her nausea increasing as she realized she was looking at blood. She slowed and stared at the marks, reading them like a book.

"He's hurt. He dragged himself through here. Where are we going?" she asked, and her Asgardian ally pointed ahead with his hammer. "I've only read of mind walking, but we should be headed for his inner mind, the true home of his heart and soul. Quickly!"

Natasha needed no further prompting, and she ran on, determined to save her partner. She stared up at the mist as she ran, curious. Without even thinking, she vaulted over a piece of rubble and reached her hand up, her fingertips brushing the bottom swirling eddies. Instantly, she heard Clint screaming in Russian, swearing he was a tourist, and please God, don't kill him! She missed her landing and rolled to the ground, stunned. She breathed heavily and stared up at the mist, ignoring Thor's concerned look; it was obvious he hadn't heard what she did.

"They're his memories. That was Moscow, deep cover. We almost lost him, then," she murmured, and the demigod beside her nodded.

"You would do well not to touch them. They're his alone," he warned.

She pushed herself to her feet and took off again, her desire to reach the end of the hall strengthening on the echo of the scream she could still hear in her head.

Abruptly, they were in a wide room, the dirt under her shoes giving way to solid stone. She glanced around as she slid to a stop, taking in the simple chair in the middle of the room and the lack of any other decoration. She saw a crumpled heap of a man off to the side, and Thor's stance shifted as he walked to the mental apparition of his brother's will. Breathing hard, Natasha left him to it and looked around, freezing in place when she saw her partner.

Someone was with him.

Clint was lying on his back in his training vest, his hair slick with sweat, his skin pale and a pool of blood haloing his body. A golden blade was sticking out of his chest, and one of his hands was on the hilt, his fingers wrapped loosely around it. His other hand was clutching the black gloved hand of...her.

A carbon copy of Natasha was lying next to Clint, ignoring the gore, and she was wearing a soft, black dress with matching gloves that was familiar, an outfit from a mission in Bangkok. The redheaded copy was laying on her side, one hand holding Clint's, the other running a hand though his hair. His head was propped up on her shoulder, and she was cradling him gently. Her copy looked up, unashamed at her position, and looked back down at Clint's unresponsive form.

"He didn't want to die alone," the copy said softly, and Natasha found her voice and bit out, "He's not dying. Thor thinks we can save him."

A long moment passed as eyes looked into mirrored eyes, and finally, the copy nodded.

"Then save him."

A blink later, she was gone, and Natasha wasted no time in getting to Clint's side. She knelt in the blood mindlessly, her eyes trailing over the marks she could see on her partner, his heavy, quick breathing giving her a little hope even though his appearance did not. His eyes were sunken in and dark, there was a collection of scrapes on his cheekbones, and she could see a gash at the edge of his hairline. Her eyes traveled over his body again, wincing as she saw the number of burns, cuts, and bruises over his arms.

It took her a moment to gain enough confidence to reach for the knife in his chest, and she had to fight against her initial, bloody reaction as his free hand suddenly snapped up and grabbed her wrist with crushing force. His breathing increased and he shook his head weakly, his eyelids fluttering slightly.

"No, Loki. Goddamn it, fucking bastard..."

The urge for Natasha to smile disappeared as he abruptly coughed, increasing the already substantial flow of blood from his mouth.

"Clint? Open your eyes for me, Barton," she ordered, privately, intensely proud that her voice was so steady.

The frown on his face was minute and he finally managed to blink open his eyes, the steady, clear blue in them warming her heart. He hesitated when he saw her, disbelief and suspicion obvious, but it quickly gave way to acceptance.

"Loki got pretty," he muttered softly, and she ignored the flutter of her heart.

His eyes slid shut again and a violent shudder tore through him, making Natasha's stomach drop.

"Barton! Clint! Come on, stay with me," she snapped as she slid one hand under his head, the other ghosting over the knife in his chest.

She glanced over her shoulder at her teammate, who was busy with Loki's unresponsive form. "Thor! If you've got something you're planning on doing here, then do it!" she hissed, satisfied when he immediately jumped up and headed towards her.

She glanced at the image of Loki, her question obvious, and Thor said, "It's a part of my brother's ill will, given shape and form by the power of the Tesseract and the scepter he carries. It seems dormant at the moment, but I cut it off from Loki's influence. It should be of no consequence now."

Jerking her head towards the man in front of her, she ground out, "There's not going to be much to save if you don't hurry. What's the plan?"

The Asgardian didn't seem intimidated by her death glare or by the injuries on the archer. He did, however, give his precious hammer a hard look and traced his fingers over the edges.

"On Asgard, it is said that a man is only the sum of his memories. My father re-experiences an entire year of history while he is in the Odin-sleep, awakening whole and full of strength, and I believe...I believe I can apply the same concept here."

Natasha blinked at him, understanding in her eyes, and her face resembled stone.

"You're going to put him through hell? Because you _think_ it will work?"

A muscle in Thor's cheek twitched, and he responded, "My brother has done this, has brought this pain to your friend, has killed innocent people. This is all I can offer: a chance to make something right out of the wrongs he's committed. And I have to try."

The stone gentled until it was simply skin, and the assassin looked down at her partner, who was pale, his breaths stuttering in his chest, the bright sheen of sweat diluting the blood that slipped from his skin. A chance...a demigod's guess at a mystical procedure he'd seen performed but never yet experienced. After all the other odds Barton had been against and survived, could she really discount this one?

Looking back up at the Asgardian, she nodded and asked, "What can we expect?"

Thor gripped his hammer and knelt beside the agents, his gaze tracking over the demolished halls of the man's mind. Glancing at her, he answered sternly, "Exactly what you said: hell."

With that, he abruptly swung his hammer at the dagger in Clint's chest, and everything went white.

* * *

The cameras told her the story later. There were three full seconds between Clint twisting the knife in his chest, Thor moving and placing his hand on the man's shoulder, and what happened next. One second everything was blinding, the next, they were back on the bridge of the helicarrier, surrounded by fear and air.

She blinked back to awareness as she felt a tiny movement under her hands, Clint's head rolling to the side a bit. She stared down at the agent below her, hopeful, and watched as Thor, already recovered, reached over and pulled the blade from Clint's chest, tossing it aside. The action was almost a trigger. Abruptly, Barton arched his back, choking, suffocating, hands flexing and fingers curling. Natasha acted quickly and pushed him to his side. He rolled to his hands and knees and gagged, coughing and throwing up blood. She rested one gentle hand on his back, eyes glued to his face, refusing to stare at the wounds on his arms that were closing right in front of her.

Instead, she leaned forward, consciousness narrowed to him, and she called softly, "Clint? You with us?"

He continued coughing, purging himself of the blood he'd swallowed, some of it tinted an alarming bluish color, but he still managed to lift a shaky hand in her direction, one finger upheld. She allowed herself a rare grin at the sight of the middle digit.

She leaned back on her heels and said, "You know, if you were anyone else, I'd break your hand right now."

He stayed leaning over, still retching, propping himself up with one hand, his other dropping for a moment before it abruptly started moving in quick, purposeful motions as he started signing rapidly using one handed ASL. Natasha read his movements easily and nodded.

"Thor did. He dissipated the thrall and healed you using some Asgardian spell."

There was another flurry of hand motions, this time as Clint slammed his teeth shut with a click, a low groan humming through his back; she could feel it against her hand.

"Yeah, I know you're sick of magic."

He coughed again, his tongue rolling around in his mouth for a moment before he spit out the saliva he'd gathered, a grimace crossing his features. He tilted his head towards her and she finally felt the first wave of relief flow over her.

His eyes were their usual stormy sky color. The Hawkeye was back.

"Get the plate of the truck that hit me?" he murmured, and she decided to overlook the slight stammer that colored his words.

She patted him once on the back and removed her hand, immediately missing the warmth. She watched as he shook his head harshly and pushed himself to his feet, staggering a bit at the abrupt change in position, and he looked around slowly, eyes taking in the assembled Avengers, Coulson, Fury, and the half dozen or so techs who were still watching him warily. He glanced at Natasha as she stood next to him, his gaze catching on the shallow cut to her arm, and the deep breath she'd just begun to take faltered

Was that confusion in his eyes?

But he turned back to the director before she could analyze it and he nodded to his handler and his boss.

"Sir, mind if I ask what the hell's going on?"

Coulson cocked his head a little bit and asked, "What do you remember, Barton?"

The archer frowned and glanced around, his confusion more than obvious to the other people assembled. Steve took a step forward and Tony leaned against the terminal behind him, glowering at the turn of events. Thor stepped back and looked away, jaw clenched. Natasha stepped forward and placed a hand on Clint's arm for a moment, worry swimming to the surface.

"Remember?" he asked softly, eyes darting, focusing on nothing.

After several seconds of silence, his partner prompted, "Do you remember anything about Selvig? And the Tesseract?"

He glanced at her, nodding slightly. "Coulson was transferred to the shadow base; I was keeping an eye on the cube. I investigated Selvig after the thing started acting out, but he was clean. What happened?"

Then Thor steeled his jaw and stepped forward, casting a warning glance at the red headed agent.

"What do you remember about my brother? What do you remember about Loki?"

It was like a switch had been thrown. Clint's head snapped up like it was tied to a string, some puppeteer yanking hard. He stared at Thor, the dark bruises still around his eyes and gauntness in his cheeks pronounced, amplifying the horror that suddenly shone in his gaze. He blinked several times as he took an unsteady step back. His partner grabbed his arm carefully and he looked at her, dim realization growing in his features. He stumbled back another few steps and she followed him, not letting go. He finally backed into a wall and stared at her, his glance snapping back to the freely bleeding cut on her arm, again and again. He slid down the wall and sat heavily, shaking off her firm grip. The agent exhaled shakily and passed a hand over his face, wiping the gathering sweat from above his lip.

Finally, he dropped his hand and looked up at his partner, his pain obvious. "Tasha...how many agents?"

Shaking her head immediately, Natasha dropped to kneel beside him and countered, "Don't. Don't do that to yourself, Clint. It wasn't you." He opened his mouth, and she cut him off again. "It was Loki. It's monsters and magic and nothing we were ever trained for. Don't do that."

His eyes darkened as he snapped his mouth shut, but he didn't argue.

"So, now that we've got Sir Shoots-A-Lot back, anyone interested in what those numbers were that he rattled off?" Tony abruptly asked, and for once, Natasha was grateful for his distraction as everyone turned away from Barton.

Only Coulson gave them a lingering look, his eyes tight, and Natasha knew the glance well: hesitation. So she stood silently next to the agent while Tony commandeered a holographic map and started messing with the display.

"They're coordinates, right?" Steve asked as he leaned forward, and the billionaire nodded.

"Yep, and the coordinates are precisely in: Times Square, Manhattan, New York. Pretty much exactly where my new, incredibly self-sufficient tower is located. The arc reactor that powers it has got more than enough juice for Loki to get this party started. Hey, Robin Hood! Any chance you'd happen to remember what time he wrote on the invitations?"

With everyone turned back to the two agents, Natasha could feel her partner's anxiety rising. Still, he managed to remain professional about it.

"Never really gave a window, but he wants an audience, for sure, and the generator wasn't quite finished. Sometime during the day; probably late this afternoon," Clint guessed, voice soft, and he refused to look up. Natasha frowned down at him, but said nothing. Tony glanced at his watch and nodded.

"All right, then. That's just about six hours. Let's talk some strategy."

As the group dissolved into a rapid roundtable discussion on war tactics, the team beginning to file out of the room, Clint got to his feet, making to follow.

"Loki was counting on me knocking the helicarrier out of the fight. It's still up, not very debilitated. Manhattan is his first stop, not his last. We should probably hold this back as insurance, in case Loki's army gets past us on the ground," he offered, and Natasha nodded, her mind far away from military science.

Clint pushed away from the wall, his steps slow, his eyes heavy. Warning bells began to go off in her mind, and she quickly moved to his side, searching his face for signs of danger.

"Clint? What's wrong?" she asked quietly, hoping he would grin and call her a mother hen or worse.

Instead, he just took another hesitant step forward, slowing to a stop. He turned towards her, the bruises around his eyes out of place with the soft pallor of his skin, and he murmured, "Tasha? Something's..."

And then he crashed to his knees, slumping to the side, his eyes open and unseeing.

She saw it all in slow motion, everything painfully clear, and there were no sounds. She dropped, her hands moving as if underwater, her fingers pressing against his carotid artery and finding no reassuring pulse underneath. She whipped her head towards the door where the team was still headed, Fury and Coulson at the rear. She screamed something, losing herself in the speed of the moment, and watched as everyone abruptly turned back to her. They started running, slowly, their faces reflecting the same terror that she felt. She looked back at her partner, stared at the blank eyes she'd fought so hard to see again, and felt tears pool at the corners of her own eyes.

Someone grabbed her and pulled her back, and she uselessly reached towards her partner, frozen and shaking as the slow motion, stop-go sequence continued. She watched as Tony slid to his knees beside the downed agent, immediately dropping his hand to the same place on his neck that Natasha had. Tony pointed at Steve, who'd taken up position on the other side of the archer, and they said words she couldn't understand. Then the billionaire was suddenly doing compressions, leaning his full weight on the man's chest, and then Steve abruptly ducked, straightening Clint's neck and airway, plugging the man's nose with one hand, and breathing into his mouth. Fury was there, grabbing one of his agent's wrists, pressing hard and searching for a pulse.

Words flew over her head and she became slowly, awfully aware that she was being held back by Coulson. She watched as the medics the director had ordered – how long ago? Eight minutes? Ten? – swarmed over the scene, the white of their uniforms hurting her vision. People were pushed aside, light praise passed around, and the floor of the bridge became an instant triage unit. The medics worked like a well oiled machine, some pressing down life sign detectors on the archer's abruptly bare chest while others set up a portable defibrillator. Natasha finally felt her hearing come back to life as the world began moving at a regular speed, far too fast for her liking.

"Got a blood sugar of 30 – he's crashing!"

"Plasma's thick; clotting on point. Where's the heparin?"

"Tachycardia – he's in V fib. Get the paddles charged!"

"Not coming back without a bag; get him tubed."

"Get a line of saline in there; his heart can't pump his blood if it's clay."

"Watch it; charged and clear!"

"Tachy's gone, pulse gone. Charge again!"

"Bagging at one a second."

"Clear it out: clear!"

"Still got nothing. Shot of adrenaline to the heart."

"Shot in. Five seconds. Four. Three. Two. One."

"All right, clear!"

"...Goddamn it."

"...Should we call it?"

And the whole time, Natasha's eyes never left Clint's sightless gaze, staring up at the heavens.

* * *

End Chapter Five


	6. Chapter 6

Title: Bruises – Chapter Six

Author: Lucky Gun

Summary: Because Loki's possession of one of the sharpest minds in SHIELD wasn't easy. In fact, it barely worked at all. A better take on Clint's forced defection, return to the Avengers, and the aftermath. Contains whump, language, torture, and all the horrors of a POW. NO slash. AU.

A/N: I know, that last one was slightly cliffy, even though I hope you all realize I love Clint too much to kill him. I just enjoy beating the crap out of him. What's a truer measure of a man: how he deals with peace or how he deals with war? Speaking of...

* * *

When he came to awareness, it was sharp and quick, a pins and needles sensation rushing over his skin. He jerked upright, mindlessly pulling at restraints he didn't even feel, and shook his head hard to dispel the headache that pounded in his skull. Distantly, in the background, he could hear someone saying something, and he squeezed his eyes tight as he mentally slammed every broken door in his mind, determined that Loki wasn't going to get as good a foothold this time. He threw his defenses up, enforcing them where the demigod had broken through before, and he finally steeled himself and opened his eyes.

Surprisingly, he didn't find himself in a dark gray mindscape that started bending with his thoughts. Instead, he was stunned to find himself looking at a bright white wall peppered with rivets. The world tilted in technicolor wonder, blues going green and reds going pink, and he could finally make out what was being said to him.

"Clint, you're gonna be all right."

Another surprise: it was Natasha. He had a fleeting glimpse of Loki's devilish grin in his mind, and he remembered the pull of a knife as it encountered flesh. He stared straight ahead as he sprinted through his mind, flying over the ground, invisible wings holding him aloft. Too late, he saw a whirl of robes disappear into a room, a heavy door closing behind. But it was _his_ mind, and he'd be damned if he was going to let the bastard win again. So he stared at the heavy wooden barrier and watched as it bricked itself over, metal sheets laying atop the brick, burning with fire.

"You know that? Is that what you know?" he found himself whispering as he stared at the flames with his mind's eye, and he knew that the sneaky Asgardian would eventually find a back door.

"I got...I gotta go in, though. I gotta flush him out," Clint murmured, internally tempted to throw off the barriers and simply chase the apparition until hell froze over.

But then he heard his partner's voice as he pulled at the soft guards encasing his wrists.

"You gotta level out, and it's gonna take time."

Time. Of course. The demigod's grand plans of world domination were coming about. He remembered that.

But her tone was so aloof, so cold...his anger was as exhausted as he was as he said, "You don't understand. Have you ever had someone take your brain and play? Pull you out and stuff something else in? Do you know what it's like to be unmade?"

The question was unfair, he knew that, and so he winced appropriately when she responded from near his head, "You know that I do."

The psychedelic edge of the world was fading, and he found he could see clearly again. She sat next to him and stared hard in his eyes; he knew she was looking for the color of evil, which was apparently electric blue. She must not have found anything, because she started undoing his restraints. He thought he could remember everything, if he tried hard enough, but he needed to focus, so he didn't.

He watched as she freed his wrists and he eyed the IV needle in the crook of each elbow with disdain as he pulled them out, glancing at the heavily laden IV pole above him. He must not have needed them anymore, because she let him.

"Saline, a heavy electrolyte solution, a blood transfusion, a concentrated nutrition supplement, a drug cocktail to even out some chemical imbalances, plus our own special mix," she informed as she sat next to him after he swung his legs over the side of the bed.

Clint looked sideways at her and remembered the ingredients of the mix she mentioned: vitamins B3, 6, 9, and 12, an obscene variety of amino acids and metabolites, a fairly heavy dose of caffeine, and a straight shot of liquid carbohydrates. He could still feel the niacin flush, realizing that that's why he felt like there were ants running through his muscles. He knew it would fade quickly, and he resisted the urge to tap his fingers on the edge of the bed as the full course of the mix started working in him.

"So what happened?" he finally asked, grateful there was no one else in the room; he could count on her to be honest.

So she told him briefly about the dehydration and the hypoglycemia putting him into a shock seizure, warned him about the tenderness he was going to have from the shot of adrenaline they'd shoved into his heart. But she refused to look at him as she spoke, and he knew why.

_Compromised_.

Could he ever think of that word the same again? But he knew he couldn't; he was still a liability, he knew that. As weak as he could sense Loki was, the man was still wandering through his mind. He could only keep him caged but so long.

"Well, if I put an arrow in Loki's eye socket, I'd sleep better, I suppose," he allowed, distracted as he barred the doors of his mind, the central point of control bristling with defenses, and he stalked slowly through the halls, bow at the ready, his anger bending the marble halls around him. But he turned his attention back to his partner as she quipped, "Now you sound like you."

Clint knew her better than that, knew her better than she knew herself. He knew there was something she wasn't telling him. "But you don't. What did Loki do to you?"

The look she gave him was quietly incredulous, and he mentally started. She couldn't mean him, could she? He wasn't worth much to the world as a man, was worth only slightly more as a fighter. But she was neither.

"You're a spy, not a soldier. Now you want to wade into a war. Why?" he asked softly, a quick internal flex of his muscles cooling the burn that had begun to seep through his body with his inactivity.

She stared straight ahead, though, and he whispered her name softly, a prayer. He was abruptly desperate to see something on her face other than ice, to hear something in her words other than a cold chill, to know something other than winter's touch. But when she turned to him, her eyes suddenly bright with real tears, he inhaled sharply. What he wanted wasn't necessarily what he wanted.

"What did he do to you, Clint?" she breathed, eyes locked on his.

His gaze hardened and his view narrowed as he studied her, a quick flash of unintended memory running back to him. A glance of her above him, the golden handle of a ceremonial dagger in his peripheral, cracked red marble ceilings behind her. There was only one place she could've been, only one place he'd seen that knife.

He jumped up, eyes wild and he backed away unsteadily, breathing harshly. She watched him go, uncharacteristically biting her lip, and he croaked, "How did you...?"

She cast a heavy glance at the door, painfully aware of the MPs standing outside of it. "Thor. It was the only way to save you."

Livid beyond words, Clint snapped, "So he decided to traipse through my mind and bring you with him?"

She stood as well, hurt in her eyes. "I don't think he thought you'd be offended by him saving your life!"

Surging forward, the archer spat, "So he did exactly what his brother did? He decided to take something out and put something else in? And you thought nothing of going with him?"

The pain that had shown on her face disappeared under a wave of anger. "You were dying, you selfish bastard! You were killing yourself! We didn't really have much time to book a flight and pack our bags. There were a handful of seconds to act and all we wanted to do was save you!"

Turning and stalking into the bathroom that was attached to the room, Clint tossed over his shoulder, "Yeah, well, you got me back Congratulations. Hope you got everything else that you wanted out of me while you were in there, too."

He slammed the door shut behind him, trembling, and he didn't miss her trailing response, "All I wanted was you."

He looked back at the closed door and exhaled shakily, running a hand over his face. He turned and flinched as his own reflection in the mirror, no longer annoyed by her mental distance with him. He looked like hell. While a couple hours of unconsciousness had started to dim the bruises around his eyes, his cheeks were still sunken and his skin was still pale. He gripped the edges of the sink and leaned forward, studying himself.

As he did so, he slipped back into his own mind, determined to fortify everything as heavily as possible. He knew he didn't have time to fight Loki. But he was going into battle, a precursor to an interstellar war, and he couldn't allow the demigod even the smallest chink in his armor. If he managed to best him, Clint could watch his own hand put arrows through the heads of every single one of his teammates. If he managed to distract him, Clint could watch them fall by an enemy attack.

And he wouldn't let that happen.

So he stepped backwards and flicked the lock on the bathroom door before he sat on the floor of the shower stall, determination flooding him. He vaguely heard someone knocking at the door, but he tuned it out. All he needed was five minutes.

Just five minutes.

* * *

The fight was far more brief than he could've anticipated, but it was amazingly destructive. Upon sinking back into his mind, he'd found his defenses under attack, the walls of his mind caving in around him. He ran towards the main room, dodging falling rock, and he slid underneath a caved section of the wall, the dirt sticking to his skin. He raced to the center of his mind and didn't slow as he approached, his bow materializing in his hand. He strung an arrow on the fly and didn't give the distracted demigod a chance to move before he released the string with a deep satisfaction in his heart.

His arrow flew true, as it always did. Loki didn't even have time to turn before the bolt buried itself in his throat. He jerked forward, falling over the chair he had been walking towards, shock clear on his features. He grabbed at his bleeding neck and glared up at the agent, who stood over him, tall, breathing hard, anger and victory clear on his face.

The Asgardian chuckled wetly and gurgled, "You think you've won, Barton? You've destroyed but a small part of me. You will not stop what I've planned. You will die, and I'll be the one to destroy you! You think this was bad? You think this was violating? I'll make you long for something so simple. An eternity of raping Natasha, breaking her again and again, is a fit punishment for your insolence. What do you think, Agent Barton?"

Refusing to let the image shake him, Clint slowly drew a second arrow and calmly strung it, pulling back the string, his muscles tightening as he drew the two hundred fifty pound force bow into place. He leveled the projectile at the demigod's face and glared over the arrow at the creature which had destroyed him, almost destroyed his home, was still threatening to destroy his world. Fear and anger warred for dominance on his face, and he finally swallowed it down enough to speak.

"I think there's only one way to shut you up," he murmured, and he let go.

Loki's blood drenched his face, and he flew backwards as the whole of his mind collapsed.

* * *

A stream of freezing water slammed into Clint, drenching him instantly, soaking him to the bone. He jerked as he awoke, his mind reassembling in a microsecond. As his senses repaired themselves, he became aware of people nearby, and of a presence directly in front of him.

His training kicked in and he lashed out, his clenched fist connecting with something soft and warm. A harsh curse filtered through his hearing, and he felt weight and force pin his arms and legs. He fought immediately, struggling as hard as his disorientation would let him. The cold spray continued pelting his body, and he shook his head sharply, trying to get away from the high-pressure jet. He felt hands on his shoulders, pushing him against a hard tiled wall, and his mind connected his reality with a too-fresh suggestion of another, worse sort of force.

"No, I won't! I'll kill myself first! Fucking die!"

A set of hands removed themselves from Clint's chest and moved to his face, instead, grasping his wildly tossing head in a firm but gentle grip. A voice permeated his thoughts, and the agent clutched at the words with everything he had, wanting to awaken from the pain-filled sleep he felt he was still locked in.

"Open your eyes, Barton! Listen to me and open your eyes!"

The words promised safety, but for some reason, Clint still felt terror squeezing his consciousness; was Loki really gone? He pulled at the hands restraining him, wishing to feel his knuckles digging into the soft and malleable texture of skin and muscle again, preferably the demigod's. But the words were insistent, the voice commanding, usually stoic tones trembling with panic.

"Damn it, Hawkeye! Open your goddamn eyes!"

Immediately, Clint's blue and storm-tempered orbs revealed themselves to the world. Water rained down around his body, and he squinted, confused, trying to discern reality through the hail of arctic water and his own fractured mindset. After several moments, he distinguished the very worried features of someone familiar.

"Coulson?"

The relief was obvious in the other man's gaze, and Clint's struggles slowly ceased. He kept eye contact with his handler, needing the intense connection to keep his mind from drifting.

"Just breathe, Barton. Just relax. Do you know where you are?"

Clint felt the hands that were holding him ease their grips, and he turned slightly, feeling his friend's hands fall from his face to allow him movement. Still under the onslaught of the frozen liquid, it took considerable effort for him to understand his position. The waterfall suddenly ended, and Clint shivered as the last few drops of moisture beaded on his bare arms.

Looking around, Clint abruptly found himself staring at his teammates, all of whom were working some way or another to keep him still, save one. Tony and Steve were at his sides, both similarly soaked, staring at him with concern and a fair bit of shock. Thor had pinned his ankles under his knee, leaning on him in such a way that Coulson had been able to get to his agent. Natasha was nowhere to be seen.

Clint may have frowned at that; he couldn't be sure. With his vision clearing more every second, he was able to see the walls of the smallish showering cubicle in the medical room's bathroom. Its white walls were spider-webbed with the black caulking used in construction.

_Like a cocoon,_ Clint thought, thoughts slow and sleepy, the simile making him think about his missing partner.

He felt warm and safe, and the panic of reality and of his living nightmare slipped away from his mind, falling from his thoughts through a small crevice, dripping into the lower half of some infinite hourglass.

Leaving…just…him.

"Do you know where you are, Barton?"

Again the question came in the same insistent voice. Clint didn't bother answering and closed his eyes, slumping against the wall, the strings to his limbs cut, leaving him like a discarded marionette doll. The hands came to his face again.

"Barton? Clint! Open your eyes, Clint!"

He ignored the voice again, warring against his militaristic side, the side that was ordering him to answer his handler's persistent demand. But the safety he felt was too deep, the warmth's talons digging farther into his psyche than Loki's influence could ever reach.

"I'm not going to tell you again, agent! Open your eyes!"

This time, Clint winced, the words cutting deep into his conscience. This man had almost died, had gone to the mat for him when he was possessed. And he couldn't do one simple thing for him? So Clint obeyed, driven by the oath he swore upon entering SHIELD's services. He blinked once, twice, and then he could see again. He saw the same sight he'd seen before; his handler in front of him, worry on his face and in his eyes, but this time there was panic in the depths of his normally controlled features.

"I need you to stay awake, Barton. That's an order."

But the warmth was too permeating, the comfort too consoling, and Clint closed his eyes again. He strained for a moment against the void that was steadily claiming him and shifted slightly, testing his arms, unresolved uncertainty driving his actions; could he still shoot? Could he still put an arrow into Loki's eye socket?

His left and right superior limbs functioned perfectly, from shoulder to finger.

Placated, Clint sunk back into the depths of the thick, honey-like oasis that had been calling him for what could have been eternity. His ears were once again deafened, his touch once again dulled, and everything melted away, leaving Clint alone and free in the heavenly nothingness.

* * *

End Chapter Six


	7. Chapter 7

Title: Bruises – Chapter Seven

Author: Lucky Gun

Summary: Because Loki's possession of one of the sharpest minds in SHIELD wasn't easy. In fact, it barely worked at all. A better take on Clint's forced defection, return to the Avengers, and the aftermath. Contains whump, language, torture, and all the horrors of a POW. NO slash. AU.

A/N: PLEASE READ! This next part is NECESSARY, I promise! This isn't a self-insert, or a romance, or anything like that. If the movie had delved into Clint's mind, had actually shown him realizing what he'd done, I think this is the way it would've gone. The woman here is a crass, snarky doctor who's almost able to collect Social Security: PLEASE don't step off this story because of this chapter! I promise, it needed to be written!

* * *

He wasn't entirely surprised to wake up in the infirmary. He wasn't at all surprised he was strapped down. He wasn't necessarily surprised he wasn't alone. He wasn't even remotely surprised by who was standing next to him with a syringe in one hand and wearing a frown. Given the dangerous line of work he was in, what with being a master assassin and all, he was more than aptly acquainted with all the members of the medical team.

So seeing the head of the ward standing next to his bed wasn't in and of itself shocking. The general aggravation that coated Ann Deluca's face was her usual mask of severity, decades of frown lines and minutes of laugh lines visible in her skin. The way she twirled the empty syringe was a bored habit she'd developed somewhere along the way, and he'd once heard her explain rather impatiently to a nurse that it helped keep her mild arthritis in check. The crimson liquid on her white coat complimented her badge; he was one of the few who knew she'd had to desensitize herself to blood, as she used to pass out at the mere mention of it when she was a kid.

The clear glass of something that seemed vaguely alcoholic in her free hand? That was what surprised him.

"Thought you were allergic, Ann," Clint muttered through a mouth that felt stuffed with cotton.

At that, Deluca gave him a slight grin that seemed feral on her features. She'd been an idealist at some point, he figured, and war, or fatigue, or simple time, had worn it away to a virulent edge. So now she fought death and sickness with a determined fervor and a sharp wit, occasionally topping off her day with a night cap.

Deluca had seen enough in her life to need a drink every now and then, and everything but rum gave her hives. She usually just cussed a bit, shoved an epi pen in her leg, and took another shot. After one such time, Clint had given the only doctor he let touch him a bottle of whiskey with a package of Benadryl taped to it. Ann had responded by giving him stitches in the shape of a smiley face after his next mission. He'd upped the ante, buying the most expensive bottle of vodka he could find, presenting it to her with a cheeky smile. The next time he'd been in the infirmary, she'd 'accidentally' forgotten to give him an antiemetic to combat his reaction to pain killers. He'd spent the evening puking his guts up while Deluca watched, both of them downing shots of vodka in between, him shooting her full of epinephrine when the hives got too unbearable.

In reality, the doctor was just another face on the helicarrier to most agents; they didn't know her unless they did something stupid or got in the way of something stupid. To Clint, she was someone crass, unconventional, and as biting and cutting as an arctic storm. She was the only person on the ship that wasn't trained in the arts of spying, self defense, weapons and tactics, or anything else of that nature. Ann was a doctor and nothing else. She didn't judge him for mission SNAFUs (except where they got him hurt) and she didn't try and make him talk unless he wanted to. It made her something like a friend.

"I'm allergic to bullshit, too, but I'm still finding myself up to my eyeballs in it at the moment," Deluca snapped as she undid his restraints with a practiced hand.

He calculated the time as he rubbed his wrists absently, feeling the fading bite from an injection in his bicep. He cast a dark look at the syringe she'd set down and she shrugged.

"A stimulant," Deluca said without preamble, and she hauled him to a sitting position with no apparent gentleness; Ann was of the mindset that if you were able to feel something, you were alive, and that was good enough for her most times.

He hissed as a head to toe ache made itself known, his muscles cramping, spasms twitching his bones. She didn't seem to notice his discomfort and pressed the glass into his hand, wrapping his fingers around it with crushing force.

"Drink it all down; don't breathe or you'll throw up, and I'm damn well not cleaning it up," the doctor ordered as she turned back to a small side table.

He hid a small smile behind the rim of the glass. Ann was a brilliant doctor, really. She'd done some sort of internship with the Mayo Clinic and had apparently impressed her higher ups to such a degree that they'd made her the youngest trauma specialist in their history. When one of her nephews had been injured during an assignment with SHIELD, she'd been introduced to the world of international intrigue, and from there, it had been a hop, skip, and a jump to working on the helicarrier as the chief medical officer.

With how many times his life had been in her hands, how many times Deluca saved him and all the other agents on board, he trusted her implicitly; if Ann told him to inhale motor oil he'd do it, because she'd know, somehow, that it would cure the tapeworm infection he'd picked up while on assignment. So he drank the strong mixture with a grimace. It burned like alcohol, and he could detect the peppermint schnapps she'd added, knowing it was one of his favorite liquors. The rest, though, tasted like medicine that had sat out in the sun and baked in a garbage dump. He coughed hard as he finished, almost chipping his tooth on the glass, and he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he waited for the burn to dissipate.

"What the hell was that?' he choked out, eyes on her back.

Deluca turned and handed him another glass, this one a thick, dark shake, a protein supplement. He started chugging it silently as she reached back to the table, this time for a small paper cup of pills.

"A different mix than you're used to, something to get you back on your feet quick and keep you there for about twelve hours. You'll have the shakes for about fifteen minutes, and until your brain registers that protein malt, you'll feel like your stomach's going to turn inside out. I skipped the morphine; from what I hear, you've had your head messed with too much already," Ann explained, a slight British accent tinting the back of her words.

She exchanged the second empty glass in his hand for the pills, and he dry swallowed them without a thought, recognizing a few vitamins and low-level painkillers in the mix. As he crushed the cup in his hand, she glanced over her shoulder, and it was then he suddenly understood.

"I'm not supposed to be awake, am I?" he asked softly, voice pitched low in order to carry to her only.

Deluca shrugged and answered, "Like I said, up to my eyes in bullshit."

He looked around, taking in his surroundings with a different view, and he belatedly realized there was an unattractive hospital gown hanging on the fish-eye camera nestled in the wall. As the powerful stimulant hit his system fully, the energy supplement and protein shake swirling in his stomach, he felt adrenaline flood his mind. The doctor ducked down and grabbed two duffles from underneath the bed, shoving them unceremoniously in his lap.

"Your weapons are in one, and your uniform is in the other. You've got about thirty minutes. Your partner and Mister Spangly Pants are headed towards the flight deck, and the man who flies around in a giant prosthesis is getting ready to head out, too," Ann informed as she glanced back at the door, knowing it was locked but double checking anyway.

Clint immediately stood and stripped; his modesty had been lost over the years, numerous interrogations and medical exams beating it out of him. Deluca still turned, though, and he pulled on his pants and Kevlar vest quickly, sitting on the bed to pull on his boots. He fell a bit more heavily than he intended, and she turned sharply, glaring at him, seeming more annoyed at him potentially destroying her work than hurting himself, although they were one in the same.

"You're gonna be dizzy until you level out, you idiot. Your body has been through hell. I don't need to tell you the medical ramifications of the level of dehydration, hypoglycemia, and exhaustion you should be feeling, or the wonders of medicine that I poured into a glass that makes it so you aren't. And we're definitely not going to get into the needle that sunk into your heart muscle and the fact that you were clinically dead for almost seven minutes. If I had my way you'd be spending the next week in here with six shrinks and a suicide watch," Deluca said hotly, crossing her arms over her chest.

The archer pulled on his gloves, the finger and arm guards giving him a sense of security, and he gave her a rueful look.

"Then what's with the eviction?" he asked as he shifted to a near-standing position, relieved that the dizziness she'd warned him about was beginning to fade behind the chemicals he'd drunk.

Ann's face grew a little bit softer, and she sighed heavily, running a hand through the long brown hair she never seemed to consider pulling back; somehow, it never tangled. Almost as magically, even with her sixty years of age and God knows how much stress, it still was a natural russet color, no grays in sight. The glance she gave him reminded him of what he knew to be true: Deluca had once been an idealist.

"Remember the first time you came into SHIELD? Mitchell was crowing about you like he'd found a damned gold mine. Your vision, your body's conditioning, your training, your experience on both sides of the law; you'd think he'd died and gone to heaven when Fury admitted you for reeducation and processing. I thought you were just a hothead with too much polish. Remember your first physical? Remember what I asked you?" Ann urged, and Clint's gaze skittered away, his throat tightening.

"I asked you why you wanted to join SHIELD. Why you wanted to do something so foolhardy as snipe down bad guys with a stupid-ass bow and arrow. Why you wanted to follow the Avengers Initiative. Why you wanted to go against superhuman threats with nothing more than good aim and a prayer."

Deluca stared hard at him, but he wouldn't meet her gaze, so she stalked over to him and gripped his chin tight, raising his head. He didn't want to see the pity or fear or reproach she had for him, but he needn't have worried. She was more than aware of what the right mixture of knowledge and power could do to a mind in the wrong hands. He thought she may have been on the other side of a needle before, given how she always seemed to detest them. So there was nothing in her gaze but solid strength and pure fortitude. The doctor searched his face methodically, her golden-green eyes less icy than usual, and she tightened her grip as she spoke.

"You told me that you weren't about to let a little bit of frail human mortality get between you and your plans to be something more than that, to remember more than that. You wanted to be a hero," Ann said softly, and he stared at the older woman above him, abruptly reminded of the mother he couldn't even remember.

Then she nodded and backed up, gesturing towards the vent in the ceiling with her chin; he wasn't shocked to find that the screws were already removed and the cover panel was leaning against the far wall.

"So? Go be a hero."

He gave her a long look, aware of what she'd done, what she was doing. He hoped that Fury would give her a pass if the battle went well, and prayed that her death would be quick if it didn't. A tug at his conscience bothered him, then, and he found his focus drifting to the bright blood on her jacket that was obviously fresh.

"Who...?"

The thin lines around her eyes grew more pronounced, and she shifted on her feet for a moment before she answered.

"Will. He broke his back falling down a flight of stairs when the engine blew and gutted himself on a busted pipe while he was at it. He died almost instantly."

The distance in her voice coupled with the name she spoke was like a punch to his gut. He staggered back, his thighs hitting the edge of the bed, and he sank into it mindlessly. Clint's mouth went dry, the flood of energy the doctor had administered pounding in his ears, and his knuckles turned white as he gripped the edge of the bed.

"Will. Your nephew, Will," he breathed softly, the half-remembered face of the CMO's last living relative flashing in his mind.

Ann said nothing for a moment, both of them swallowed up in the silence, and he passed a shaking hand over his face, the tremors having nothing to do with the chemical cocktail in his system. A million words hit his tongue, and he bit back all of them. How do you apologize for something like that? How do you fix something so wrong? What could you do to wipe that off the ledger?

Another memory hit him, this one a soft voice in his head, Loki's cultured tones freezing his heart.

"_Can you? Can you wipe out that much red?"_

He didn't know if he could.

"_Your ledger is dripping, it's gushing red, and you think saving a man no more virtuous than yourself will change anything?"_

Clint clutched his head as Loki's voice echoed in his thoughts, the shared memories bursting through him. He could see Natasha's frightened features as Loki cut deep with his words, could see his own hands as they took down the guards in Stuttgart, could see the blood on Ann's jacket spill from Will's gut.

"Oh, God," he whimpered, and while he was vaguely aware of warm strength on his shoulders, nothing could distract him from the pressure in his mind.

"_You lie and kill in the service of liars and killers!"_

The migraine started to flow, intense and full, and he ducked his head, digging his fingernails into his scalp as he tried to shunt the pain.

"_You pretend to be separate, to have your own code, something that makes up for the horrors."_

Loki wasn't wrong. How many times had he killed and told himself it was different for him, that he was fighting for a just cause? How many times had he lied to himself like that?

"_But they are a part of you, and they will never go away!"_

He knew he was crying, and he couldn't make himself stop. He couldn't make himself believe he deserved to ever stop. So he ducked further down, tight sobs shaking him, and the full enormity of what he'd done rushed through him.

He'd killed members of the United States Armed Forces at the shadow base during his mad dash from the underground facility.

He'd killed innocent men who were doing nothing more than guarding a building.

He'd given classified information regarding the technology and procedures of SHIELD to a sworn enemy of the Earth.

He'd killed men and women, fellow agents, fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, sons and daughters. He'd killed nieces and nephews.

How many letters of condolences would the director have to write because of him? How many Purple Hearts would be given out because of him? How many twenty one gun salutes would shatter the dawn at Arlington because of him?

His ledger wasn't dripping with blood, it was _made_ of blood. Even looking at it could taint the purest soul. Clint thought of all the children who wouldn't see their parents at the end of the shift; what could he ever do to fix this?

"Oh, God...what did I do?" he whispered, breath shuddering in his chest, and he felt seemingly stronger hands than his pull his palms from his face.

Ann stood at his level, eyes narrowed, and her lips were pressed into a thin line as she carefully wiped away his tears with her thumbs, skirting his stormy gaze deliberately; the man's partner would have her hide if she damaged his sight. But she smoothed away the rest of the evidence, rubbing the tear tracks out of existence, and she held his face firmly.

"You listen to me good, Clinton Barton. I can tell you that you were under the influence of goddamn magic, and you won't listen to me. I can tell you that each and every one of the men and women who've died because of Loki died doing what they believed in, and you won't listen to me. But you better hear this: you are a SHIELD agent, the best damned marksman in the world, a fine partner and a damn good man. You are everything Will wanted to be as a soldier," Ann said lowly, not budging when he flinched.

She waited until he met her diamond-tipped gaze again, then continued, "And if you let this beat you, if you let his death, his sacrifice for our world, be in vain, then there's nothing left to fight for. You are a good man, and all that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing."

Clint inhaled sharply, the well known quote by Edmund Burke hanging in the air above him, and he stared hard at her, realizing that with her words, her ardent belief in him, the headache pounding in his skull was slowly ebbing away, and Loki's voice was going silent.

Exhaling slowly and inhaling at an even pace, he squeezed his eyes shut and firmly reigned in his emotions. Opening his eyes again, he gave her a simple nod.

Returning the gesture, Ann bit out, "Good. Now shut up, suit up, and go kick some ass."

She backed away and he flexed his fingers, feeling the strength in them, the power to protect life, not just destroy it. He wouldn't ruin her efforts with a thank you, because he knew Ann hated societal requirements like that. Instead, he made a mental note to buy her the biggest bottle of coconut rum he could find when everything was over. He pulled his quiver and bow over his head and shifted them into place, folding his internal armor around him tightly.

He gave her one more look, his eyes saying more than he could ever speak, and glanced at the ceiling. Rolling his shoulders, he crouched and leapt straight up. He caught the edge of the metal vent with his fingertips and pulled himself into the small space, the close quarters not bothering him in the least; he often used the vent system on the helicarrier to move around.

"Barton?"

He paused and looked back down through the hole, eyes catching the doctor's gaze. Ann gave him the barest grin, the slightest acknowledgment of the crafty soul hiding inside her, and tossed a small leather-bound badge into the vent. He caught it easily and looked at it in the light coming up from the room. It was his own badge, the SHIELD eagle gracing the golden metal, the back side showcasing his photograph, his name, and his signature, right next to his codename. He traced a finger over the word 'Hawkeye' reverently, and he looked back down at Deluca.

"Do me a favor and kill that son of a bitch," Ann growled.

Grinning a bit himself, he gave her a sloppy salute and started shimmying down the vent, the sounds of the cover being replaced echoing around him. He turned his thoughts towards vengeance, the memories of broken marble and shattered doors spurring him on, and he plotted the quickest way to the flight deck and hurried on.

* * *

End Chapter Seven


	8. Chapter 8

Title: Bruises – Chapter Eight

Author: Lucky Gun

Summary: Because Loki's possession of one of the sharpest minds in SHIELD wasn't easy. In fact, it barely worked at all. A better take on Clint's forced defection, return to the Avengers, and the aftermath. Contains whump, language, torture, and all the horrors of a POW. AU.

A/N: I am SO sorry that it's been so long since I posted! I have a lot of chapters written but my internet is dead at the moment. Thanks to my best friend and beta reader SpenChester for posting this! Onto the real notes: I am SO relieved with those of you who stuck with me through the last chapter! Honestly, I was terrified it would make the majority of you ditch the story, but again, I feel it had to happen that way. I'm also debating going majorly AU with a part of this story, and I need to discuss it with my beta. Hmm...

* * *

When Clint dropped from the vent above the garage to the top of the quinjet, no one noticed. When he slipped into the plane, he had been slightly annoyed to find someone already in the copilot's seat. The man had looked at him, slightly fearful, one hand shifting towards his pistol. But then Fury's voice had abruptly sounded over their earpieces, and he knew the doctor hadn't been completely clandestine in her actions.

"Agent Barton is no longer compromised. Stand down; the Avengers have access to whatever they need to take out Loki."

So the man had nodded, ease entering his posture, and he'd vacated the seat, rapidly executing the external flight checks at Barton's order. Clint slid into the pilot's seat and ran his fingers over the controls, losing himself in the familiarity of the motions. Coulson had been surprised when the agent had shown a propensity for piloting, but it made sense to Clint; what a better talent for a man codenamed Hawkeye?

Intent on the display as he was, he didn't miss the footsteps that abruptly came up the ramp, quick and low arguments echoing through the small space. He could heard the regimented steps of the super soldier, the clunking steps of metal against metal, and the near-silent steps of his partner. He didn't move from his seat and he heard Steve inhale sharply.

"You aren't authorized to be here."

The tone of the man's voice made it obvious that they hadn't recognized him from his half-concealed position in the chair.

Turning slightly and leaning so they could see him, he pinned the captain with a look and said, "Sir, just don't."

He watched as Steve and Tony exchanged a glance, obviously uneasy; he couldn't blame them. They hadn't met him beyond his possession and his shock attack in the shower, hadn't known him beyond his attack on Natasha and his subsequent medical crash. So he decided he wasn't offended by the way Steve was restraining himself from reaching for his shield, and the way Tony's palms were glowing just a little more than they usually did.

But it was Natasha whom Clint was most concerned about. It was his own fault they'd had harsh words the last time they'd spoken, and it hurt. He could count on one hand how many times they'd snarked at each other like that since they were partnered up. As odd as it seemed to almost everyone else except for Coulson and Fury, they were so alike in so many ways, they were almost never off book with each other. When they were, a silent conversation in the sparring room usually resolved those differences. But he had trouble remembering the last time they'd actually raised their voices at each other.

Given the way her eyes were slightly red around the edges and her hair was a little less smooth than usual, Clint knew he'd scared her, badly. And a scared assassin made mistakes and got themselves killed.

Standing, he walked to the middle of the jet, his arms loose at his sides. He stared at her silently, and the two other men took a few hesitant steps backwards. For her part, Natasha, outfitted in her own uniform, her Widow's Bite gloves glowing softly in the dim light, stared back at him, her expression unreadable. Finally, she abruptly closed the distance between them and slapped him, hard. He let her hand hit, let his head jerk to the side, and he still said nothing.

Natasha gave him an angry look and he swallowed and dropped his gaze. Her eyes flashed, and she smacked him again; his cheek was turning a nice, rosy red. This time, when he turned back to her, his own eyes were bright, fear and shame and guilt clawing for dominance, his expression unsteady. She was trembling from head to toe, her hands clenched into tight fists, her skin pale. His hawk eyes caught the slight quiver in her lower lip.

He took a step forward, arms slightly upraised, and she shook her head sharply, her shaking worsening, and he didn't listen. Clint stepped forward again, slowly, his arms coming up more, and a blade was abruptly in her hand. His eyes caught it in the light, and he ignored it. Another step and a whisper of movement later, there was a thin line scored on his cheek, not even deep enough to bleed. He heard Tony and Steve shift and their uneasiness permeated the room.

Natasha, however, stared hard at the mark she'd made on her partner's cheek, a half inch below his left eye, and horror stole over her face. Clint saw it coming and abruptly pulled her into an embrace, pressing the knife in her hand between them. She ducked her head into his chest and he rested his chin on top of her bright red tresses, eyes squeezed closed, arms wrapped tightly around her small frame.

Knowing her as well as he did, he could see it all play out in his head, her life from the moment of his forced defection.

He saw her drop an assignment, because he knew she would in a heartbeat if Coulson told her he was compromised.

He saw her watch his capture in the videos fed from the shadow base to off-site servers, her zooming in and freezing on the color of his eyes.

He saw her talk with the team, dropping hints, reminding them, again, that he was one of SHIELD's, one of theirs, not a target.

He saw her steel herself before she moved into the cell block, pulling up her acting skills for some of it, relying on her own emotions for the rest.

He saw her fight with him, spin away from the gash he cut in her arm, conflicted, scared.

He saw her cry in real life as she screamed for him to hold on in his mind.

"I'm sorry, Tasha. I'm so sorry," he whispered into her hair, arms tightening around her.

He felt their heartbeats synchronize, felt their mental steps fall back in with each other, felt their muscles shift in the same moment. He pulled back a little bit and traced her cheekbone with the tips of his fingers, the leather from his archer's glove gliding over her skin smoothly.

"Вы спасли меня, паук," he whispered, her traditional Russian rolling off his tongue easily, the words perfectly inflected.

_You saved me, spider._

She looked up at him, then, her eyes becoming slightly steadier, and she traced her fingers over the red line under his eye. He leaned into her hand a bit, relishing the burn, loving the reminder of her.

"Ты спас себя, ястреб. Я видел ваш ум," she answered just as softly, and he shook his head slightly, gaze darkening a bit.

_You saved yourself, hawk. I saw your mind._

"Мне очень жаль. Вы не должны были видеть это," he bit out harshly, his anger directed at himself only.

_I'm sorry. You shouldn't have seen that._

Natasha frowned a bit, and she leaned into him, relishing the moment, soaking up the warmth and safety his arms provided to her and her alone.

"Не пугайте меня, как это еще раз, Клинтон," she ordered roughly, and she felt his lips tightening in a kiss on her forehead.

_Don't scare me like that again, Clinton._

"Никогда, Наталья," he agreed, her real name flowing over her like a soothing balm.

_Never again, Natalia._

They stayed that way for a few seconds more, rearranging their mental walls; they couldn't think of each other as fragile, as damaged, or neither one of them would survive the coming fight. Then Clint pulled back and gave her a rueful grin as he glanced at the sharp blade in her hand, one of dozens of the aptly named Widow Makers on her person.

She gave a slight shrug and returned it to some secret pocket as she turned and eyed the two other members of the team openly, daring them to say anything about the exchange. Steve and Tony cast equally timid glances at each other, and Clint took the initiative. He cleared his throat and stepped forward slowly, right hand outstretched.

"We've never been properly introduced. Agent Clint Barton, codename Hawkeye. I'll be your sniper for today, gentlemen," he said lightly, eyes betraying nothing.

Tony was the first one to break out of his stupor, and he immediately shook the man's hand, nodding to him as he did so.

"Yeah, Tony Stark, genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropist. Well, less on the playboy part nowadays. I usually just stick with the title 'superhero' anymore. Seems to cut down on all the long intros," he said as he shook the man's hand firmly.

Clint eyed the bruise on Stark's cheek and made the calculations.

Waving a hand in the same area on his own face, he said, "Yeah, sorry about...that. I may have overreacted a bit in the bathroom earlier."

Tony shrugged and said, "Yeah, I've heard that getting possessed by magic from another planet can do that to you. No biggie. You meet Steve Rogers before? This here is Captain America."

Clint nodded slightly and held out his hand to Steve, who looked at it for several seconds before raising his eyes to the other man's face, unmoving. The archer didn't hide his grimace and sighed heavily as he dropped his eyes.

He ran his outstretched hand through his hair and he heard Tasha step forward to say something, but he stopped her, saying, "Don't, it's all right. Have I given him any reason to trust me? All I've done is tried to kill him for the last five days with a weapon that initially destroyed his life seventy years ago. Why would he?"

Steve frowned a little and asked, "You've read my file?"

Even Tony seemed interested in his answer, and Clint nodded as he said, "Yeah, I was read in on the Avengers Initiative several years ago, when the director originally conceived it. Tasha and I were the vanguards of the program."

Steve blinked, shocked, and Tony clapped his metallic hands together, the noise echoing in the small space.

"All right, kids, let's get this show on the road. Banner is down there somewhere, and I'll bet with the Capsicle here that he's gonna show up before the fighting gets too thick. Thor's flying around out there somewhere too. We can count on both of them. So let's head out and get there before they get all the fun."

Tony turned to leave the jet, and Steve frowned a bit, watching him go.

"Your suit's pretty beat up, Stark. Can you make it that far?" he asked, honest concern in his voice.

The genius rolled his eyes in a way that immediately revealed how much he thought of the captain's overbearing fear.

"Yes, mother, I made sure to eat my vegetables last night, so I could grow up to be big and strong," Tony smirked as he disappeared outside the jet.

Clint's eyes were trained on the damage he could see on the man's armor, knowing he was somehow responsible, but he schooled his gaze when Steve turned his eyes back to him. The soldier looked him over for several seconds, then nodded towards the cockpit area.

"Can you fly this thing?" he asked, and it wasn't easy to miss the double question in the words, the testing edge the soldier had for a man who'd been his enemy since he'd known he existed.

Clint nodded slightly, answering, "In my sleep, even."

Lips quirking despite his best attempts to stop it, Steve asked, "Can you fly it well?"

Giving the man a sideways glance, the agent answered, "I can crash it with the best of them."

Steve cast his gaze to Natasha, who gave him a single nod, her hands nowhere near her weapons. Seeing the trust, he finally held out his hand.

"Let's get this bird in the air, then. Captain Steve Rogers, United States Army," he introduced himself, and Clint didn't hesitate before he grabbed the man's hand and shook it.

"Barton," he stated again, and then the formalities were over.

Turning back to the controls at the front of the jet, Clint slid into the pilot's seat as Natasha sat beside him, taking her usual place as his copilot, navigator, and weapons operator. The archer mentally tallied the number of times they'd been in this same position, riding shotgun to each other as they flew into a mission, usually and customarily against insurmountable odds.

When his number reached the triple digits, he winced and stopped counting.

As the jet lifted off and tore through the air, chasing Stark's trail, Clint tried to focus, tried to make his mind grab and hold onto his mission. Stop Loki, defeat the army he had coming through, destroy the portal, retake the Tesseract, and his primary concern: protect the team.

The archer glanced at the woman beside him, watching her fingertips roll effortlessly over the dozens of buttons, switches, and levers on her side of the cockpit. It was like watching a dance, and with a pang of sharp fear, he idly wondered if he'd ever get to see her dance again. She was like a song when she danced, rising and falling and flowing with the wind. She usually only danced after a hard mission, after a long week, or after one of them was injured. That generally translated to just about every night. Sometimes he joined her, their moves on the dance floor complimenting each other as well as their moves in combat did. But mostly, he did what he did best: he watched from a distance.

Casting a look over his shoulder, Clint thought hard about the super solider pacing the cargo bay restlessly. Turning his eyes back to the clouds, the archer wondered what it would be like to wake up and have everything you knew and loved gone, not by something evil or twisted, but by the simple tick of time. He thought about losing Natasha to old age, a image of her with wrinkles and white hair shocking him; he didn't believe either of them would ever grow old. They'd die in the field, something that Steve had seemed eager to help with a few minutes prior. But the agent couldn't blame him. After all, the man had been given a second chance at life, and he didn't seem keen to lose it by trusting someone who didn't need to be trusted. If Clint had his way, the man wouldn't be losing it any time soon. He'd spent too much time guarding the man as he lay comatose for weeks to allow any less.

That brought Clint to Tony; he'd been privately shocked that the man had so easily accepted him after everything with Loki. He hadn't lied – he and Natasha were the first two members of the Avengers Initiative – and he knew the man's file. He knew about Obadiah, and he'd been there at the Stark Expo when the Hammer drones had gone on a rampage. He'd taken out a few but had left the majority for the Iron Man per Fury's orders. He'd even had a shot lined up on Vanko's head for twenty four seconds without being given the green light. He knew the man was used to being betrayed, but Clint also knew he had something worth fighting for. Pepper Potts would be waiting for Tony when he got home, he knew, and he was determined that they'd have a happy reunion.

Clint checked his coordinates out of his peripheral as he thought about Thor, trying desperately to forget the roar of pain and anger he'd heard firsthand when he watched the demigod fail to pull his beloved hammer from the rocky crater just a year or so ago. He hadn't know the man was an alien, then, but he knew there was something else in his eyes other than the usual fear and weariness of life. There was hope tempered by time, and there was an ache for something that couldn't be understood. And he'd seen Jane, afterward, sighting her through a scope as the Destroyer walked through the town, Coulson shouting for him to stay his hand. He was glad he did, because he knew he wouldn't have been able to take it down. But Clint saw Jane go after Thor when he went down, saw the fledgeling love they had for each other, and he had almost loosed an arrow at the thing on principle alone. He knew Jane was safe now, squirreled away from the world in some hidden lab, and he wondered about their return to each other.

And what did Bruce have to go back to? A continued fear of emotion, a desolate lifestyle devoted to movement and obscurity? Frowning, Clint shook his head. No, he wouldn't let that happen. He had heard the respect Tony had for the other scientist, and he knew that quasi-immortal or not, Bruce wouldn't go down easily. But he doubted the enemy would fight nice, so he knew he had to keep an eye on the man. If nothing else, the doctor could look forward to combating third world disease on Tony's dime, since it was obvious the genius was a bleeding heart, and Bruce was the one to drain him dry for all the right causes. And the big guy? The green rage machine that lurked inside the man's head? For some reason, the archer wasn't worried about him. He didn't know why, but he thought that the other guy probably had a soft spot for the team. Sure, he'd gone after Natasha and Thor, but no one was kidding themselves: the Hulk could've killed Natasha anytime he wanted, he just chose not to. Clint had been there during one of the creature's appearances, and he'd seen him pull his punches when he could've decimated a human enemy. So he knew there was something worth protecting in the other man, green or not.

Keeping the helicarrier out of the fight was another objective he set for himself. He knew she was damaged, limping towards them faster than she was capable of, but he also knew he hadn't hit her as hard as Loki had wanted. He'd been ordered to take out two engines, one via explosive arrowhead, and other through a computer hack. He hadn't been able to stop Loki during the first attack, locked in the memory of his real combat loss at SHIELD, and while he managed to stop the second, the ship was still horribly damaged. And it didn't matter that the people on board the ship were trained for this, were prepared daily for this. This wouldn't be happening if he'd been stronger, if he hadn't picked his battles so much and simply given the demigod hell from the first second.

He clenched his jaw tight and ground his teeth silently, knowing what he had to look forward to. While Fury may have known was Deluca was doing when she sprung him from medical, he bet his bow that the Council didn't. In fact, he was relatively certain the group of shadowy men and women was the reason he'd been strapped down again and drugged out of his mind. He knew what happened to operatives that defected, even if it was forceful, even if it was a ruse for a mission. They were contained in quarantine – although the word 'isolation' would be more apt – and they were what Barton called 'forcefully debriefed'. He'd had the misfortune to see a few in person, to see the truth serums administered and the active MRI image of the brain light up as the agent answered questions. He'd seen them get worse, seen blood and tears enter the fray, and he'd lost more than a few nights sleep over it. He never thought he'd be staring down the needle of that syringe, but he knew it wasn't too far in his future.

If he survived.

Abruptly, nausea was crawling up his throat almost as fast as he could register it, and he tore his headset off as he slapped the hover switch. The forward momentum of the jet gave way to a gentle crawl before it stopped altogether. Clint could feel Natasha's shock and Steve's confusion as he staggered from the pilot's seat and threw up in a built-in hazmat chamber, his chest aching deeply as he did so. He coughed hard, distantly feeling a petite hand on his shoulder, and he waved her away. He gagged a few more times, dark bile slipping from his mouth, and spit the last of it into the bin.

He pushed the bin closed and knelt in front of it, drained, and he rested his suddenly feverish forehead on the cool metal of the jet's walls, his eyes slipping closed. He felt himself being turned and pulled to sitting, something cool and wet tracing along his face. Clint leaned into the touch, exhaling slowly, willing the nausea back down. It obeyed, albeit reluctantly, and he heard a familiar voice in his hidden earpiece all of a sudden.

"I told you to take it easy, you idiot."

He gasped out a choked laugh, the doctor on the other line huffing when he responded airily, "Actually, you said I was going to be dizzy. You, absolutely, in no way, told me to take it easy."

Deluca's voice came again, "Yeah, well, read between the lines, Barton. I didn't get you on your feet so you could crash one of the quinjets in a stellar fireball. Tell me what hurts."

Barton hesitated, hating revealing weakness to his team, but before he could open his eyes to read the expressions on their faces, her voice was echoing in his ear again.

"And if you give me any macho bullshit because Little Miss Sunshine and Captain Star Spangled Spandex are there, I will personally shove my size ten so far up your ass you'll be tasting shoelaces for a week. Symptoms, now."

Swallowing a bit of water that suddenly was at his lips, he breathed softly, "Chest hurts, nauseous, hot."

The doctor was all business as she silently translated his words into medical jargon.

Finally, she said, "You got a little bit of stress on your mind, do you, Barton? Other than the blatantly obvious, what's worrying you?"

He was quiet for a moment, and the CMO read him easily.

"You're worried about being forcefully debriefed, aren't you?" Ann asked intuitively, using his term for it, and he tried to ignore the question over the sound of the engines dutifully spinning.

There was another moment of silence, and the doctor abruptly spun out a curse-filled conversation with some person that Clint didn't envy. Words flew back and forth, and he tuned it out as he finally opened his eyes and stared at Natasha and Steve, both of whom were watching him worriedly. He gave a tired smile and shook his head.

"Doc will have me up in a heartbeat, no worries," he murmured, one hand unconsciously rubbing his chest directly over his heart.

Ann's voice came again, bitter but victorious, and she snapped, "Damn straight, Barton. There's a crate of first aid materials in the back with ready-filled syringes. Have Romanoff grab one shot of the ondansetron and one shot of dexamethasone, and deliver it right into your arm. They're corticosteroids; they'll help with the nausea and the inflammation around the adrenal injection site, and they'll help control your stress response."

The conversation must have been keyed for all earpieces, because Natasha was back at his side with the two shots before the doctor even stopped talking.

"And don't give me that freak out, Barton. You won't get central serous chorioretinopathy, I promise. Your vision is safe," she said sternly, immediately allaying the archer's unvoiced fear; he had seen two other snipers lose their sight to CSC during his tour in the Army due to steroid usage, and he wasn't keen to follow their example.

He said nothing as the needles slipped through his skin and pumped the clear fluids into him. He could hear the faint static on the line, indicating Ann was still there, and he swallowed past the dryness in his throat.

"Thanks, Ann," Clint said softly, eyes unfocused, staring off into the distance. Deluca said nothing for a moment before she responded, "Don't mention it. Ever. And don't worry about the debrief; Coulson just finished convincing the Council that won't be necessary, at least not for awhile."

The pain in his chest started dying as his nausea disappeared, and he blinked the world back into focus. The heat in his head remained, and he realized it was a heavy niacin flush. The doctor hadn't been lying; the mix she gave him was much stronger than the one he was used to. He cleared his throat and chugged the rest of the bottle of water that Natasha held out to him, his eyes tracking the worry that she tried to hide. He gave her a small smile and gave Steve a nod, surprised to find the other man had a fair bit of concern on his face as well.

"I'm all right," he reassured as he got to his feet, amazingly steady.

He eyed the cockpit for a moment before Ann's voice came one last time.

"Stop stalling, stop hesitating, get in there, and kick that man's skinny white ass back to wherever the hell he came from."

Swallowing back the last of his fear, he nodded uselessly and slid back into the pilot's chair.

* * *

End Chapter Eight


	9. Chapter 9

Title: Bruises – Chapter Nine

Author: Lucky Gun

Summary: Because Loki's possession of one of the sharpest minds in SHIELD wasn't easy. In fact, it barely worked at all. A better take on Clint's forced defection, return to the Avengers, and the aftermath. Contains whump, language, torture, and all the horrors of a POW. AU.

A/N: I had to add the last part of the previous chapter because they didn't really explain why the jet was late; despite Stark's snappy comeback, I really don't think they stopped for drive thru. Here's another fairly massive AU part, because without Coulson's death, the team had to form some cohesion somehow. And I'm going to shut my mouth before I really, seriously ruin something here. Read on, Macduff!

* * *

The jet landed easily on the helipad of an office complex, Tony snapping that he was going to make the pad at his tower bigger, since it couldn't handle one tiny little jet. He also made some sort of vague reference to a drive thru, a commentary on their delay, and even though the idea of food made his stomach roll, Clint still managed to smirk a bit. He slammed his hand on the button to lower the ramp, pushing away the memory of the last time he'd hit that button. The warm summer air spilled into the jet and they stalked down the ramp quickly, filing out into the bright sunlight.

Steve, Natasha, and Clint were slightly shocked to see Thor already there, stalking the pad, eying Stark Tower like it had bit him. And banging through the door at the top of the building was a slightly sheepish looking Bruce wearing borrowed clothing that was far too baggy. A second later, Stark landed heavily beside them, a spark shooting from his helmet as he tore it off, aggravated.

The team looked around at each other and then stared at the hundred story building. The office complex they were on was maybe seventy stories tall, and Stark Tower still loomed huge just two buildings over from them. They circled up and Tony was the first to speak.

"This armor's seen some mileage. I've got to get up there and get my new suit if you guys want me in this fight," he said, seeming annoyed by the lack of ability he had without the armor.

Steve frowned and said, "But if that's where Loki is, what's going to keep him from blowing you out of the sky on approach?"

Bruce rolled his shoulders a bit and said, "I could, you know, distract him. Somehow."

Thor immediately countered, "No. He is my brother. I will reason with him before he is mindlessly attacked."

Natasha stared at the demigod and asked, "You're actually going to try and talk him out of world conquest? Do we even have time for that? What if he opens the portal while you two kick back a beer?"

Tony held up a hand and said, "Yeah, and I don't know if I'm too comfortable with two demigod brothers having a simple conversation in my penthouse. We all saw what happened the last time these two tried to talk."

"But if there's a chance the man can be stopped with no loss of life and no damage," Steve countered, "Then we've got to at least try."

Tony cocked his head and took a step forward, voice dropping as he said, "My building, my call."

Thor snapped, "My brother, my call."

Bruce jumped in and said, "Whoa, whoa. What about the army waiting on the other side of space? Are we just supposed to write them out of the equation now?"

Natasha rolled her eyes and said, "Not everything boils down to math, doctor. This situation certainly doesn't."

And on they argued.

Clint stepped back underneath the shadow of the jet, his eyes dark, watching the group argue loudly. He stood silently and waited, listening to the different arguments, reading the lips of his teammates, preferring that method of communication with the number of conversations that were overlapping. His eyes darted between them all, the chemical cocktail in his system doing nothing to alleviate the headache that started pounding behind his eyes.

When their voices got too loud and the light got too bright, he turned and stared at the tower, the shining jewel of the skyline. With his vision, he could see the flicker of movement at some of the floors as groups of Stark's employees began filing out, their shifts complete. He could also see the winking lights as computer monitors powered down as their users left. Looking up, he traced the outline of the top floor, seeing the glass and curved landing area at the penthouse. Then he looked back down.

Right into horribly, awfully, terrifyingly blue eyes.

Starting, Clint stepped back a foot, breathing quickly through his mouth as he stared at the man in front of him. There was Loki, in all his demented glory. The archer's eyes snapped back to the team, many of them with their backs to him, but he figured, even in their distraction, they should notice the enemy in their midst.

Loki followed his gaze and gave Clint a coy smile as he said, "They can't see me, Agent Barton. I'm your ghost, and yours alone. Have you been well?"

Swallowing hard as the demigod came closer, Clint continued backing away, his eyes locked on the Asgardian's eyes, his memories of the last five days swarming and overwhelming him. Loki tilted his head a little and gave him a false look of worry.

"My dear Agent Barton, you're not glad to be rid of me, are you? You, who gave me so much trouble, who made my powers appear as child's play, you are the crowning achievement of my kingdom," he said grandly, arms spread open as he continued to advance towards the archer.

Clint backed up at the same pace Loki moved forward, barely cognizant of his surroundings, uncaring as the hard tarmac gave way to loose gravel.

"What do you mean? I beat you, I kicked you out," Clint whispered, physically unable to make his voice any louder.

Loki raised a finger and admitted, "True, you did. _How_ you did it is what made you interesting, Barton. You have heart. You have more heart than any creature I've seen. You feel things even after a lifetime of numbing atrocities. You wear your guilt and pain like a cloak and carry it well. You are so delectably _human_ that it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end."

Tripping slightly as he scampered backwards over the gravel, Loki stalking towards him rapidly, Clint's gaze darted towards his team, still mindlessly arguing amongst themselves. Abruptly aware that he was nearing the edge of the building, he glanced around, hating the corner he'd allowed himself to be backed into.

"So what if I'm human? One was able to beat you, and if you have your way, you'll have an entire world to try and control next. You can't win," he bit out a little more strongly, forcing himself to halt his retreat.

But Loki looked far from defeated. Instead, he seemed more animated. The demigod's eyes danced as he came to a halt as well.

"Yes, you're right, Barton. After the army comes, after the Tesseract can be removed from the machine, I will use it to take over the mind of every single person on this planet."

Blinking, Clint frowned as he murmured, "You just said..."

Gamely humoring him, Loki took a few steps forward, and Barton only managed to take one step back before he found himself at the edge of the building, a single foot-high barrier standing between him and a seven hundred foot drop.

"You gave me the key, Agent Barton. Your resistance was so deliberate, so enthralling, that I managed to plan a perfect attack to dismantle it on the first try. You should see them, the men who took your place. They have nothing, now. No free will, no emotions, no memories to draw strength or fear from. They are _mine_."

Horrified, Clint breathed, "What did you do to them?"

Shrugging in the royal way Thor sometimes did, Loki responded, "I learned my lesson with you, Barton. I expanded your mind, but them? I cleared it. Blank slate, as it were. They know nothing beyond serving me loyally for all their days. And I'll do the same to every other person on this planet. You gave me your hawk sight while I walked the halls of your mind. Everything that follows is all thanks to you, Barton."

There were several seconds of near silence, the wind whipping around the sniper, his mind spinning as he realized what Loki was saying. He thought he knew what his was like to be unmade.

Belatedly, he realized he'd never had a clue.

"Yes, Hawkeye. Your entire race, enslaved, destroyed, and you gave me everything. You gave me what the good doctor needed to complete the portal, you gave me the practice I needed to perfect my powers. You have given me your life, Barton. You've given me your _world_. You are a good man, Clint Barton, for resisting the way you did, fighting the way you did. But I am better. I will always be better."

His skin cool in the summer heat, Clint dropped to his knees, catching himself on his hands, the soles of his boots pressed up against the barrier he'd stopped at. His eyes traced the gravel beneath him mindlessly, his breath coming out in heaving gasps, and in his mind's eye, he saw faces, so many faces, people he'd killed and saved and watched over. He saw their expressions blank, their eyes an electric blue, their mouths silently screaming their pain at him, the deliverer of their freedom to the god who would rule them to their deaths.

"Clint?"

Even with the worry so sharp, he didn't hear it. Nothing could cut through the image of those thousands of screaming faces in his eyes or temper the roar of their silent howls in his ears. All he could hear was Loki's soft voice echoing in his thoughts, the words rolling through him like a tidal wave.

"_You've given me your world, Hawkeye."_

He may have sobbed at that point, a vision of Natasha, of Tony, of Bruce, of Steve, cobalt gazes lighting up the night, flashing through him.

"_Everything that follows is all thanks to you."_

And it was. He couldn't deny it, didn't even try. How many people had he already killed? How many men did Loki mentally destroy in his search for Barton's replacement? How many would die in the upcoming battle?

Squeezing his eyes shut, Clint choked on his own damnation.

"_You gave me everything."_

"Stop it," he whispered.

"_You gave me your hawk sight, Barton. I can see everything."_

"Stop it," he said, stronger this time, his fists clenching on the gravel, the sharp edges denting his skin.

"_You are a good man, Clint Barton."_

He ducked his head farther at the demigod's self-satisfied words, the painful reminder of how he was such a good man ringing through him. But then something else caught his attention, a fragment of a recent memory. Eyes flying open, the agent heard, not Loki's soothing tones, but the sharp, cutting voice of the helicarrier's CMO Ann Deluca.

"_And all that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing."_

Breaths stuttering in his chest, Clint raised his gaze, the image of Loki gone, replaced by the fearful and infinitely worried members of his team. Natasha was closest, though she stayed well out of his immediately lethal range, the others crowding behind her, Stark Tower standing imposingly behind them. The sun caught glinting movement, and Clint's eyes widened.

High on the penthouse terrace of Tony's latest building, his face a mask of uncontrolled fury, was Loki, brandishing his scepter, a ball of energy flying from the staff towards the roof they were on.

There wasn't any time to think.

Eyes immediately taking in his position and surroundings, Clint pushed himself forward, boots digging into the shifting gravel of the roof, his hands already pulling his preferred weapon. He darted to the side of the group faster than they could follow, his mind blank, his eyes trained on his target. He stepped once onto a support rod for a massive air mover, stepped next onto the side of it, a quick series of leaps taking him straight to the top of the machine. Immediately reversing direction, Clint vaulted backwards, pushing off from the unit as hard as he could, the arrow nocked and the string pulled.

For a fleeting instant, he imagined what the rest of the team saw: him suspended twelve feet in the air, body arched against gravity, his back to the ground, his arms in perfect shooting form, his focus on a target no one but him could see.

And then the moment was over, and he released the string, eyes focused, the soundless screams of the demigod's victims falling silent for a split second before he heard the screams of his partner. He watched as the arrow soared over the ball of energy heading straight towards him, his eyes tracking its trajectory, ensuring he hadn't missed.

Even as the energy hit him and his world turned to white agony, his ears picked up the angered cry from his target as the sharp arrowhead found its mark.

He didn't know why he worried. He never missed.

Not anymore.

* * *

It was only a few minutes later when he startled awake, shock and disorientation playing into the multiple hands he could feel on him. He immediately lashed out, his wrists were pinned to the ground instantly, and the sharp bite of the gravel rolled over his senses, restoring perfect clarity.

He blinked, opened his eyes, saw two familiar people kneeling over him, and he fought back an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. Groaning lowly against a general ache that accompanied his movements, he tilted his head and squinted at the bright sunlight above him.

"If we are back in my mind, I'm going to be so pissed," he grunted as the hands holding his wrists withdrew.

Thor and Natasha exchanged a glance, and the assassin helped the other agent sit up with nothing less than relief in her gaze.

"You're lucky you're even alive, you idiot. What the hell were you thinking?" the Russian spy bit out, her teeth worrying her lip.

Glancing around and noticing Tony hovering nearby in an armor he'd never seen and Bruce much bigger, greener, and meaner than he remembered, Clint caught her hand and allowed her to pull him to standing.

"I'm guessing I wasn't thinking much at all. What happened?" he asked, nodding once to Steve, who was standing silently with his arms crossed, his shield nearby.

Thor gave him a hearty pat on the back as he explained, "My brother attempted to attack us while we were focused on you; I surmise he was using an astral projection of himself to torment you, Hawk."

Rolling the stiffness from his neck, surreptitiously ensuring his bow and arrows were where they were supposed to be, Clint allowed, "You could call it that."

Natasha added, "You jumped in between us and the blast and managed to shoot Loki in the process. We thought you were toast but there wasn't a mark on you."

Frowning, Clint looked down at his arms, confirming what she'd said. Even his chest, which should have taken the brunt of the hit, wasn't aching more than usual. His eyes immediately turned to Thor, who was giving him a fond look.

"You Midgardians never cease to amaze me. From when I healed you before, in your mind, you somehow managed to retain enough energy from that to save yourself here. How you did it is beyond me, but I don't recommend trying again; I doubt there's anything left inside you to fend off an insect bite, much less a concentrated attack," Thor explained.

Clint blinked at him, wondering which one of them had lost their minds, before he asked, "So...physician, heal thyself?"

The reference went straight over the demigod's head, but Natasha flashed him a quick smile before she continued, "While Loki was busy digging your broken arrow out of his shoulder, Stark managed to get his new suit after almost killing himself while unsuccessfully attempting to take out the generator, and Bruce became just slightly enraged by the fact that you were almost killed, yet again."

Clint bobbed his head a little, cocking it slightly, allowing the words to go unchallenged. It was the truth, after all.

Turning his eyes back to Steve, Barton had the nagging sense he was being judged, and he instantly stopped fidgeting. The heavy look the soldier was giving him slowly eased until the man was almost smiling.

"Pretty impressive, Barton. That what you meant by being our sniper for the day?" Rogers asked, and Clint shrugged, aware that the entire team was staring at him with differing levels of shock and awe.

"A practically impossible shot taken from a midair back flip: just one of the many services I offer, sir," he answered easily, the light banter silencing the recurring echoes of faceless screams in his ears.

Rogers nodded and turned to Stark, who was undoubtedly about to say something snarky, when there was a huge explosion of vertical energy at the building towering over them. They all stared straight up, mouths agape at the dark tear that grew across the sky. And then there were small speeders slipping through the gap, lasers firing, and the general public started screaming.

"Right. Army," Tony muttered to himself. Then he turned his head towards the assembled group and said, "Call it, Captain."

Rogers looked over the edge of the building, wincing as he saw cars already burning. Glancing back at the team, he nodded and took charge.

"All right, listen up. Until we can close that portal up there, we're going to use containment. Barton, I want you here on this roof, eyes on everything, calling out patterns and strays. Stark, you've got the perimeter. Anything gets more than three blocks out, you turn it back or you turn it to ash. Thor, you've got to try and bottleneck that portal, slow them down. You've got the lightning; light the bastards up. Romanoff, you and I will get on the ground, keep the fighting there. And Hulk? Smash."

There was a roar of approval from the green monster as he leapt off to do exactly that, and Tony's repulsors glared bright as they pushed him off the roof towards the steady line of enemies disappearing in the distance. Thor gave the remainder of the group a simple nod and spun his hammer, flying off to a nearby skyscraper.

Natasha and Clint paused for a moment as Steve ran towards the roof access door, the assassins staring at each other with determination.

"Do me a favor and don't do anything stupid like that again, all right, Clint?" she demanded halfheartedly, and the archer nodded slightly.

"Same to you, Tasha. Be safe," he murmured, one hand running down her arm gently, his fingertips barely brushing her uniform.

She nodded once, hearing Rogers call for her, and then she spun and sprinted after him, the two of them vanishing behind the door.

Breathing deeply, Clint pulled his bow from his back and his fingers tapped a command on the buttons embedded in the handle, an arrowhead attaching itself to a bolt instantly. As he pulled the arrow and sighted the first of a thousand targets, he forced himself to focus.

Focus, and ignore the screams that resumed wailing through his head.

* * *

End Chapter Nine


	10. Chapter 10

Title: Bruises – Chapter Ten

Author: Lucky Gun

Summary: Because Loki's possession of one of the sharpest minds in SHIELD wasn't easy. In fact, it barely worked at all. A better take on Clint's forced defection, return to the Avengers, and the aftermath. Contains whump, language, torture, and all the horrors of a POW. AU.

A/N: Okay, so it went into a total AU there, but honestly, it had to. The team needed cohesion, and I refuse to kill of Coulson. So seeing Clint and observing just a taste of what he's gone through mentally, seeing the feats he's willing and able to perform for them, that's my cohesion for the team: Clint's return. This chapter takes a similar form of my other story, Midnight, in style and formatting. So let's sit back and watch Clint kick ass.

* * *

The archer had grace that he couldn't touch on his best days. Even with the green fog over his mind and the distance he felt from the giant hands crushing and destroying and maiming, he managed to get the other guy to keep some sort of tabs on the rest of the team. How he had been able to abruptly distinguish between friends and foes, Bruce didn't really have an idea. He thought it may have boiled down to him actually allowing the creature to come forward, a conscious decision, but he pushed the thought away. If that was true, he didn't want to think how many more deaths he would be weighed down with.

But while he knew Hawkeye was similarly burdened, their fates so much like each others' it was uncanny, he realized he couldn't see it in any of the man's movements. He leapt to the top of their previously abandoned building, swiping speeders from the air as he did so, and found himself next to the archer. Clint didn't even bat an eye at the green monster's presence. Instead, he nodded once and continued firing arrow after arrow, his muscles tight under his skin, his eyes focused and determined. Bruce watched him shoot, knowing the sniper's mind was performing quickfire calculations that boggled even the scientist.

Wind speed, trajectory, target movement, inertia, gravity, wind resistance, force, impact speed, and actually picking a target and tracking it.

The scientist thought he might be able to do something like that, had he time, a lab, and a few cups of decaf. But this man literally did it on the fly. Bruce frowned inside his protective green skin as he thought back to Barton's file. The man had been a circus performer in the beginning, eventually shifting into the role of mercenary, before he'd lied on God knows how many forms and joined the Army as a sniper. He'd been there for less than a tour before he had turned in a fellow soldier for extraordinary conduct unbecoming, exposing his own past in the process. SHIELD had recruited him directly before his court martial hearing, pulling him from the dingy military prison with a single piece of paper. And he'd been theirs ever since.

He'd read something about an affinity for languages, anything with an engine, and the ability to shoot bullets out of the air from a thousand yards. He'd read something else about extensive physical training, rigorous conditioning, and natural interrogation defenses. He'd read about prank wars, a wicked sense of humor, and more personal baggage than an intercontinental flight. He didn't know if he believed any of it.

Then Clint was suddenly right next to him, pointing straight up at the portal, gaze tracking over the massive flying creature that soared through the space slip, one of three making their way through the portal simultaneously. Hulk roared, desperate to pound, to destroy, to reduce it to a standing pile of rot and mess. But the archer had a different idea.

"Hulk, can you get me about forty feet in the air?" he asked, fingers dancing over his bow's handle, quiver whirring. Bruce and the other guy's confusion melded into one, both of them wondering what a simple man could do against such a creature, and Clint gave them both a serious look as he said, "Trust me."

So Hulk didn't hesitate – trust in the team, the group, the family, was an inherent animal characteristic – and he grabbed the man in his thick hands and hurled him straight up. Bruce watched with shock and fear, his greener side screaming it to the world. Clint managed to straighten himself in midair and pulled an arrow. As his flight peaked, his body coming with two hundred feet of the leviathan, he loosed it. It flew true, as his arrows always did, straight at the creature's face. Directly before impact, it exploded in a shower of whistling flares. The leviathan bellowed and turned, swimming through the air after Clint's falling body.

The archer didn't let his rapidly increasing proximity to the rooftop distract him. Instead, he released three arrows in rapid succession, their dark forms hiding in the creature's skin, and Hulk abruptly body slammed the man, snatching him out of the air. They tumbled to the ground, both recovering immediately. The leviathan followed them, screeching, and Hulk and Clint looked at each other. A devilish smile played over the sniper's lips, and his finger twitched, a soft click accompanying the movement.

A second later, three explosions effectively separated the creature's jaw and half its face from its body. It gave a final, desperate scream as it fell heavily into the street between the Stark Tower and the building the archer and the scientist were on, the loud crunching of cars and breaking glass accompanying the thing's landing. There was a short battle lull as it fell, the angered howls of the rest of the army echoing through the air, and Clint gave Hulk a dark grin.

"You can tell Stark that I am not cleaning that up," he quipped as he darted back to the side of the building and began shooting again.

Hulk watched him go, Bruce smiling a little inside. Okay, so maybe he did believe it.

* * *

Steve still didn't trust the man.

Seeing Clint lay out one of the leviathans like it was nothing he had to think about just made him more suspicious. How would he know the creature's weaknesses without still being connected to Loki? And the way the archer had worked alongside the Hulk with an ease of posture that Steve couldn't affect around his own mother made him leery as well; who wouldn't fear the Hulk? Even Steve was suitably wary of him.

He hadn't had time to read the man's file, but he'd had plenty of time to talk to Coulson, seeing as the man barely left him alone for more than ten minutes. But hero worship aside, the handler's voice had tinged into something barely less than breathless adoration for his two charges, one in particular. Phil had touched briefly on Natasha before Steve had met her, had spun a tale of Soviet brainwashing, clandestine training from six years old, and a feared reputation the world over as the Black Widow.

But Barton? Steve could tell how much the man respected him by how long it took to get him to say anything about him. He'd eventually mentioned a crappy childhood, the wrong side of the law, and shooting a bullet down the barrel of another sniper's rifle from eight hundred yards out. He had mentioned the man's incessant desire for a trustworthy field partner had led him to abandon a mission objective and save his target, Natasha Romanoff. He mentioned that their moves were so unexpectedly choreographed, so utterly effortless, that psychologists and scientists had studied them for telepathy.

Steve glanced up at the roof he'd left the archer on, frowning to himself as he fought his way through a tangle of enemies, his thoughts slightly dark. They fell easily, and he took advantage of the short break to look back up, his heart jumping into his throat as he saw the sniper sprinting along the thin edge of the building. He tracked him with his eyes and saw as bolts of energy from a pair of speeders ate at his steps.

"Barton, you've got two on you!" he shouted in his embedded microphone, and damn it all, the other man didn't even sound winded when he responded, "I noticed, Captain. Situation under control."

And then he ran out of roof.

Steve's breath caught as he watched Clint swan dive off the side of the building towards the street, his bow in one hand, his other empty. He couldn't shout or scream or even try to speak. He just watched the man fall for a few hundred feet, the speeders peeling off, their supposition at his fate the same as the Captain's.

Then, suddenly, there was the Iron Man, flying through the air, his palms blasting any alien who was stupid enough to get in his way. He obviously hadn't noticed his free falling teammate, because he didn't even turn his head in his direction. But Clint had noticed him. He'd predicted his movements, his speed, the enemy's movements flawlessly.

So Iron Man sped underneath the falling man, just as Clint straightened and extended his hand, catching the back of the man's suit, pushing himself off the armor towards the opposite side of the street. Steve didn't spare Tony's shocked shout any attention and instead watched as Clint did the same palm flip off an enemy speeder passing him by, this time planting something explosive on the thing as it flew off. By the time it had crashed and burned, Barton had landed on a second rooftop, across the street from the one he'd started at. He crouched as he landed and rolled twice along the edge of the wall before immediately popping to his feet, bow strung, arrows flying.

Steve blinked as he watched him, replaying the moves in his mind, and, ever the soldier, mentally reviewed every result of every possible misstep.

"Barton, what the hell was that?" Rogers snapped through the comm unit, taking out his frustration on an enemy that happened to get too close at just the wrong time.

"Told you the situation was under control. Gotta trust me, captain. I knew what I was doing," Clint said, the soft twanging noise of his bow spitting death coming over the earpiece.

Steve stared up at the man, his body taunt, his toes comfortably over the edge of the twenty story building, his eyes roving restlessly along the skyline. Amazingly, the captain found himself chuckling a little bit at the situation.

"Do me a favor next time and have it under control in a way that doesn't involve you giving me a heart attack," he ordered lightly, and he could hear the answering grin in the other man's voice.

"Sure thing, dad."

Yes, he did trust him, Steve decided.

* * *

Tony determined that communications towers were the next things to tackle on his to-do list, both figuratively and literally. Seriously, who needed fifty foot high metal towers on top of office buildings anymore? He couldn't think of a good reason to have an obscene amount of steel right in his flight path. Jarvis was jabbering in his ear about a mechanical fault in the hydraulics, his HUD was flashing all kinds of funky reds, and all he could do was curse the person who had decided to put the damn thing there in the first place.

He'd been bugging out of a corner, chased by half a dozen speeders, and they'd flushed him right into the giant steel net. He'd hit hard and gone down, bringing the tower with him. It was crumbled over him and the edge of the slightly taller building across the road, its length covering the street between them, jagged metal and still-too-tight cables everywhere. The tower had taken out a good chunk of both roofs, retaining walls crumbling, and Tony could see the warning light at the top of the tower still blinking, mocking him. The crash had triggered some sort of cascade failure in his suit's hydraulics, and the armor wasn't going anywhere without a manual restart, which was, of course, only an inch from his fingers, but without his hydraulics, it might as well have been a mile. Jarvis suggested he wait for the Hulk or Thor or even Rogers to get to him, but Tony knew his teammates were about four blocks away, and the enemy was decidedly closer to that.

Just as he resigned himself to at least a bloody nose, Jarvis quietly announced, "Sir, Agent Barton is headed this way."

Turning his head as much as he could underneath the web of metal he was trapped under, Tony's visual screen zoomed in on the sight of the archer on the roof across from him. Frowning, he started to get concerned – very concerned – because the man was basically sprinting towards the impromptu, dangerous, rickety bridge that connected the two buildings.

Clint didn't even hesitate as a few ground troops started chasing him down, and surprisingly, he didn't pull his bow, either. Instead, he pulled the weapon over his head, securing it on his back, and he ran straight onto the six inch wide strip of steel closest to him. Tony's breath caught in his throat as he watched the archer, his mind calculating the angles the man was forcing his body to bend to as he snaked through the tower's wreckage. There were speeders flying through the street, the edges of their decks skimming the metal bridge. A few aliens were following Clint, albeit slower, their eyes constantly on the two hundred or so feet between them and the solid asphalt below.

But Barton didn't seem to even recognize the distance, much less give it any thought. He simply wound through the net, body twisting impossibly in some places, and he came to a point about halfway across where the metal had collapsed in such a way that it wasn't possible to get through the middle of the wreckage. Not even slowing, Clint abruptly jumped off the bridge, landing lightly on a taunt cable that Tony hadn't even seen. He flinched at the move, teeth almost chewing through the inside of his cheek, and he held his breath as the other man toed over the line with barely any less speed than he'd moved through the center of the tower, arms out slightly for balance.

"Barton, your five o'clock!" Tony snapped into his comm, desperate to move, to help, but only having his voice at his ultimate disposal.

The warning was obviously appreciated, because Clint actually stopped and turned that direction, hands clenching. There were two alien soldiers on top of the metal bridge, their staff-like guns charging a deep purple color, their war cries echoing through the air. Clint glanced left and right, then, as they fired, simply dropped. Tony may have given a choked gasp at the move, his eyes wide, as the sniper caught the cable he'd been standing on with practiced ease. He pulled himself up a bit and flipped upside down, placing the bottom of his feet against the side of the cable, and he used the counter pressure of his grip to push himself off towards the tower.

He was too low, Tony absolutely knew, but then Barton caught a bottom metal girder like he'd been aiming for it, and the genius exhaled sharply, hating his helpless position. He watched the man dangle from the bottom of the wreckage for a second before he started picking his way forward, fingers finding holds in the most awkward of places. Tony glanced over his shoulder at the other aliens who were on their way to his own position, swallowing when he realized they were far too close for comfort. Turning back to the downed tower, he spoke into his mic.

"Whatcha doing, Barton?" he asked slowly, voice almost sing-song.

There was only a slight bit of strain in the other man's response as he said, "Oh, you know. Just hanging around."

His proximity warning dinging in the background, Stark responded, "So I'm lying here, trapped under twenty tons of steel, and you're doing an ape impression?"

Tony winced as the other man swung his legs a bit, giving himself some momentum, and bridged an eighteen inch gap by completely letting go of the rafter he was holding with both hands and grabbing the other side. He was within twenty feet of the roof Stark was on, but his enemy was closer.

"I prefer being likened to Tarzan, just minus the whole loincloth thing. Your suit compromised structurally?"

The segue made Tony twitch a bit, but he gave a quick check and said, "No, just a few dents. I'll have to have some words with the valet."

As Stark was talking, he watched as Clint suddenly pulled himself up a bit and hooked his legs through part of the tower, hanging upside down, and the ADHD part of Tony's brain abruptly wondered what kind of glue SHIELD used to keep his arrows in his quiver. The archer was about ten feet above Tony, and he pulled his bow and an arrow and aimed far closer to the genius than he was comfortable with.

"You trust me, Stark?"

The question was a little softer than it should've been, but he couldn't blame him. With what the man had been through, he would definitely have at least a little insecurity. But Tony had seen worse, had been worse, had lived and died through worse. As far as he was concerned, Barton was closer to a brother-in-arms than any of his other teammates so far, only because he knew his situation so well. His screen was focused on the archer, and he could see the slight tremble in the man's muscles from the exertion he'd put into getting across the tower, the thin sheen of sweat that covered his arms and face and matted his hair, the darkness in his eyes that wouldn't go away anytime soon.

But then again, he was also pointing God knows what kind of arrow his direction at the moment.

"Trust you about as far as I can throw you on my best day, Legolas," Tony answered finally, and he was rewarded with a quick grin.

Then the arrow was unleashed and it thunked solidly into the face of an enemy soldier directly beside Stark, one of six who'd made their way to his pinned form. A split second later, a mini explosion rocked the area. Tony shut his eyes tight against the sudden commotion, and when he opened them next, Clint was right there.

"The switch on the left of the neck," he murmured, slightly dazed.

A second later, his hydraulics suddenly whined and whirred to life, diagnostics isolating the problem and eliminating it. Lifting up the broken tower so he could roll out from underneath it, he stood and glanced around as Barton wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand; summertime in New York City was never fun, even without the mass invading army of aliens.

"Next time you're going to get trapped somewhere, can't you do it next to a slushy stand or something?" he asked as he trotted towards the edge of the building and began sniping down aliens again.

Grinning as he blasted off, Tony decided two things. Yes, he definitely did trust him. And two, he was buying that man his own slushy machine.

* * *

Given the fact that the army was from space and fought in ways he was familiar with, Thor was angry with himself for not having anticipated the enemy's tactics sooner. He'd left the Hulk after downing yet another leviathan, his lips twitching in a smile as he thought of the creature's sucker punch. He supposed he'd deserved it for taking the killing blow, and of all the members of the team, he was perhaps the only one who was able to fight one on one with the green thing. But in his distraction, he'd made a crucial error.

The first wave of their enemies had been airborne, the second wave was comprised the heavily armored leviathans and ground troops, and the third was a mix of all three. He knew Loki would have contact with the army's commander, knew he would be prepared for the team's resistance, though not its coordination. But still, it made sense that there would be specialty troops awaiting deployment. And Loki had, indeed, deployed them.

Which is how he found himself face to face with a sword-wielding fiend, a slice in his gut, the blood coating his hand making it difficult to grasp his hammer. He glared up at the creature from his position of haphazardly leaning against a random crushed vehicle, and he took in the sharp fangs of the alien, the mask covering its face, the hilt of a second sword jutting from a scabbard on its back. He absently realized they weren't broadswords, but were in fact something longer, deadlier, and sharper.

"Thor, what's your position?" a voice suddenly asked over the earpiece that the demigod had forgotten he was wearing.

He glanced around at the dozen or so troops that had circled around him and the swordsman, their eyes leering, their cries of victory resounding in his head. He only needed a few minutes, fifteen at the most, before he'd be well enough to fight again; his Asgardian physiology would see to that. But he didn't think he would get that long.

"Currently in a nest of Bilgesnipe, and they are mightily annoyed," he responded dryly, automatically falling back to the code he and his own team of warriors used.

Surprisingly, the voice in his ear managed to pick up the meaning without any explanation.

"Sounds like fun. Can you duck for a second?"

Almost looking around for the Earth-bound fowl, Thor instead crouched when he heard the whistle of movement behind him. A moment later, Barton dropped from somewhere above him, rolling to the road hard, his momentum heavy. He was still for only a moment before he shifted onto his back and pulled his legs up, placing his palms upside down and flat on each side of his head. He abruptly pushed himself up, swinging his legs into position, landing on his feet. Thor watched him with wary eyes, remembering all too that well the last several encounters he'd had with the man had not been necessarily sane. In fact, he'd seen the destroyed halls of the man's mind, and wasn't sure if the human would be able to recover from such damage, and may instead be inclined to take it out on whatever of Loki he could, brothers included.

But Barton didn't give him a second glance and instead gave the whole of his attention to the eight foot creature standing in front of him, its curved sword brandished wickedly.

"You must flee, archer! He means to use that blade!" Thor snapped, frustrated by the man's apparent inability to grasp the danger of the situation adequately.

As though to prove Thor correct, the fiend abruptly moved forward, quicker than its bulk ought to have let it, the blade cutting through the air. But Clint wasn't there anymore. Instead, he had leapt backwards with a speed that eclipsed his enemy's. Screeching, it swung the blade again, this time a wider arc, and Barton's bow was abruptly in his hand, expertly deflecting the attack with the carbon fiber frame. Sudden determination was visible on the sniper's face, and he turned and ran up the side of a burning van, the creature stepping heavily after him, anger obvious in its movement.

Barton turned and jumped nimbly over an attack that would have cut him down at the knees, and instead of leaping straight up, he jumped forward, flipping over the alien, twisting his body in midair. His hand grasped the hilt of the thing's second sword and pulled it from the scabbard as he passed over it. Clint landed facing his enemy's back, the apparently light, five foot long sword held loosely in his left hand.

Thor winced as his stomach burned, his blood working furiously to repair the damage to his body, and he eyed his teammate's stance, intrigued. If he didn't know better, he'd say that the man knew how to handle a sword, and knew how to handle it well. As the fiend turned and Barton tossed his bow to the side, sliding into a comfortable position, the sword balanced in his hands, Thor abruptly realized that yes, he did know better.

Moments later, the creature lashed out with an overhead strike, one that Barton parried without a thought. He staggered only slightly under the other fighter's strength, his grip shifting slightly to compensate, and he shoved the other blade off his own with a hard push. Another attack came, this one a low sweep, the tip of the fiend's blade scratching the concrete as he swung. Clint spun and caught the end of the attack behind him, the swords clanging together at his shoulder blades, and he grunted and pulled his arms up and forward as he stepped backwards and ducked, dragging the alien's sword over his body and to the ground in front of him. With his enemy suddenly kneeling right next to him, Clint slammed his elbow into its face, and when it stumbled backwards, its blade trailing the ground, he jumped and delivered a hard kick to its throat.

Screeching loudly, it grabbed at its neck as it backpedaled into an overturned car, glaring at the archer with a murderous look in its purple eyes. Clint simply spun his blade in his hands and sunk into another stance, waiting. With an angry shout, it attacked again, and on they fought.

Thor breathed deeply through the agony that was slowly stemming itself, watching the fight tensely, his muscles tight. None of the other enemy troops were paying attention to him, all their focus on the swordfight that danced in the small open area on the street. It took several minutes of observation, but the Asgardian became aware of several things all at once.

For one, he knew, without a doubt, that Barton could end the fight at any moment he wished. He himself was no swordsman, and he still noticed a few openings that the archer could have taken advantage of. But the sniper never did. Instead, when he saw these opportunities, he'd cast a glance at Thor, make some sort of silent decision, and then choose to continue the fight. His second realization was that Clint was buying him time to heal; every time he looked back over at him, his eyes would only ghost over his face before they focused on the visible wound in his side. And so far, the man was not satisfied with the level of health he was at. Another thing he noticed was that Clint had great showmanship, as well. Whenever the gathered hoard of troops grew too restless with the fight, whenever they began to move in at all, to redirect their attention to the injured Asgardian, he would allow the fiend to nick his arm with his blade or land a punch, he'd gasp or groan or stumble backwards, and the alien soldiers would redirect their attention to him again.

Swallowing, Thor felt an unaccustomed rush of shame flood his cheeks. He'd been initially concerned with the man's allegiance, with his stability, but what had be done but proven himself to be loyal, past a fault, to everyone on the team thus far? He'd watched the man fight alongside the Hulk, and he'd seen his breathless leap from the tall tower to vault off the Man of Iron. He'd watched his unyielding attempts to get through the metal wreckage to save the man who'd unwittingly saved him. And he remembered the archer's mindless dedication to his team with his impossible shot at Loki, the sacrifice he openly made to save them. The fact that he hadn't died had been providence, he was sure.

The man had heart, too much heart to deserve anything less than Thor's absolute trust.

So he stood, shaking off the residual pain from his near-healed wound, and gripped his favorite weapon tightly. With his own battle cry, he joined the fray, taking down the shocked troops with only a few swings. As he did so, he saw Clint flinch as the other sword bit a little deeper than he'd intended before he smoothly turned and decapitated the fiend. Alone for the moment, Thor watched Barton give another, almost fond look at the sword he held before he dropped it and retrieved his bow. There may have been a flash of pain in his movements, and Thor frowned.

"Are you hale, Hawk?" he asked as he came closer, eyes tracking the other man's visible wounds.

Clint gave him a sideways look as he retrieved several arrows from some of the corpses surrounding them, evidence of his long-distance presence everywhere in the battlefield.

"Right as rain, Thor. Your side okay?" he asked, gesturing with one of his arrows to Thor's bloodied armor.

Glancing at himself, Thor nodded and then said sincerely, "Thank you for your assistance, Hawk. It was much appreciated."

Clint rolled his eyes and responded, "If you start hugging me, Stark will never shut up about it."

Laughing loudly, Thor nodded and answered, "You are not wrong, friend."

* * *

End Chapter Ten


	11. Chapter 11

Title: Bruises – Chapter Eleven

Author: Lucky Gun

Summary: Because Loki's possession of one of the sharpest minds in SHIELD wasn't easy. In fact, it barely worked at all. A better take on Clint's forced defection, return to the Avengers, and the aftermath. Contains whump, language, torture, and all the horrors of a POW. AU.

A/N: The last chapter was the whole 'why do they trust him' reasoning. This chapter is the whole 'Natasha is his partner and never stopped trusting him' part. Nothing too interesting, just Clint being a badass and the rest of the team taking a breather in the process.

* * *

Natasha saw the three men file out of the front doors of Stark Tower with solid purpose on their faces, and she knew, unerringly, where they were headed. Call it second sight, third eye, sixth sense – she knew when her partner was in trouble, just like he knew when she needed him during a mission. But she was busy with her own fight, taking on alien soldiers with her electric gloves and athleticism alone.

"Hawkeye, you've got incoming. Where are you?" she asked into her comm unit, dropping another enemy with a kick to its head and a thrown Widow Maker.

"A block north of you and thirty feet up on an apartment terrace. What's your status?" he immediately asked, and she could hear the sounds of close quarters combat over the earpiece.

"Not quite as bad as Columbia, not quite as good as Egypt. Loki's got it in for you. Three targets heading your way on foot, fast," she warned, and there was a deep grunt over the audio before he managed to speak again.

"Yeah, I see them. Brazen little bastards, aren't they?" he muttered, mostly to himself, and she took out another alien and stared down the street to where she could see the three men still jogging through the damage, the SHIELD emblem on their shoulders bouncing as they ran.

She raised her eyes to the apartment complex she determined her partner to be at, searching him out, and found him exactly where he'd said he was, on a garden terrace at the top of the squat building. Her heart leapt in her throat as she realized he was fighting hand to hand, the sounds she'd heard coming from his own movements, not one of their other teammates.

"Are you out?" Natasha asked as she dashed that direction, snagging every arrow she came across as she ran.

There were a few seconds of silence before Barton replied tightly, "Quiver got caught on a bad guy. It's at ground level." He paused and there was the loud sound of something cracking before he came back on the line, his tone satisfied, "But I've got one up here."

She looked up at that, just catching sight of one of the three dedicated men going down hard, an arrow in his leg. Frowning, the spy looked back up and saw Clint drop his bow as he turned to engage another alien soldier with his bare hands.

"You missed?" she asked, incredulous, and she was close enough to see him pass an annoyed looked over his shoulder at her.

"Loki did something to them; I'm not gonna kill them if I don't have to," he explained sharply, and Natasha could hear the tint of self-depreciation in his voice.

Shaking her head at his words, she ran up to the man that he'd shot, about twenty yards from the entrance of the building, maybe fifteen yards behind the two other men who were about to enter the complex. Natasha didn't hesitate as she darted behind him and slammed one of her small but solid handguns across the back of his skull. He had been struggling to get to his feet when she'd come up on him, and he dropped like a rock.

Glancing back up, she felt her breath catch as she saw Clint take a kick to the head, pushing him backwards, and another punch from the same enemy had him up against the railing surrounding the terrace. He grappled with the alien, one hand trying to get to one of his knives, the other pulling at the huge hands that were wrapped around his throat. From her perspective, Natasha could see the railing start to shudder under the force, and she winced, knowing his lower back was taking the brunt of that pressure.

"Clint!" she shouted, and as her desperation started to peak, she heard another voice over the radio waves.

"I've got him," Tony reassured, his suit abruptly roaring through the air, but a strangled voice gasped over the comm, "No! Get…back!"

Hesitating, Tony hovered about fifty feet from the rooftop, his body language obviously conflicted.

"You're doing a fish impression, Barton. Let me get you off the hook," he snapped, worry clouding his words.

Natasha swallowed hard as she stared up at her partner, the angle of the sun making it difficult to see clearly. But Clint's next movements were painfully, glaringly obvious. He shifted _backwards_, pulling his legs up and curling his body as much as he could, both arms covering his head. She got it a split second before it happened.

"Grenade!" she screamed, and an explosion overshadowed her warning.

The entire terrace was suddenly engulfed in a cloud of smoke, fire, and vibration. Instinctively ducking, the spy still couldn't force herself to take her eyes off the archer. The explosion caught the back of the alien holding Clint, propelling both of them over the edge of the railing. They fell, flipping end over end, and dropped onto an SUV, the alien landing first, Barton crashing hard on top of him, The roof of the truck caved in under their weight, the metal bowing like cloth, the windows blowing out. As debris flew, brick and dust and flame raining down over the area, Natasha ran forward, dashing up to the side of the crushed vehicle.

Unsure whether the enemy soldier was alive or not, she placed two bullets in its skull as she came up to the truck, barely giving it a glance. She clambered up to the destroyed roof and stared at her partner, her eyes tracing his form, looking for any telltale injuries even as her fingers froze in their movements. He was facedown on the alien's chest, his eyes closed, soot and ash painted over his skin. One of the thing's arms was draped over his back, and Natasha pushed it off him angrily and cringed when she saw the deep red pre-bruise tint that covered his neck and shoulders.

Putting her lips right next to Barton's ear, she urged, "Come on, Clint. Get up. We've got to move."

There was no answer from the archer, and Natasha glanced up as the apartment, her gut lurching as she realized a huge section of the wall was teetering on its perch, a chunk of the top floor directly above them threatening to crush them. As it started rocking a bit, closer to the balance point, she looped her fingers in Clint's vest and pulled him, hard.

"Get up! Get up, you lazy bastard!" she snapped as she started dragging him over the alien's cooling body towards the edge of the SUV.

Then something the consistency of hot metal slammed into her, and she found herself on the ground a hundred feet from the building. Blinking at the disorientation that swelled through her, she looked around and found herself face to face with the Hulk. She shivered slightly, remembering the last time she'd been in unwitting close proximity to the thing, but he just frowned at her, the motion reminding her of a lost puppy. He shifted his view, and she redirected her focus to match his, and her heart thundered in her ears as she saw Thor shaking Clint's unresponsive form, shouting in some language she didn't recognize. Steve was standing immediately behind them, his shield seeming heavy on his arm as he used it to deflect the dust from the wall that had toppled, right onto where the two spies had been moments before. Tony was a few feet from Natasha, his faceplate open, his eyes tight.

"I'm guessing that's why he said no on the help," he offered dryly, and she cast him a dark look as she started forward, her steps purposeful, and as she got closer, she realized she could make out the steady rise and fall of her partner's chest.

Exhaling a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding, Natasha knelt next to him and Thor gave her a small smile.

"He seems hale, just dazed," he informed, and Natasha kept her features skillfully blank as she reached out and slapped her partner. Ignoring the shocked features of the rest of the team, she shouted, "Ass up, soldier!"

Clint's eyes flew open and his hands immediately flew to his hidden knives, the handles barely visible against the fabric of his vest. But Natasha caught his hands quickly and squeezed them slightly, their own special signal.

"Easy, Barton, easy," she murmured, and he blinked a few times, his eyes searching for her and finding her almost instantly. He swallowed hard against the phantom pressure still wrapped around his throat and he gave the area a single sweeping look, his gaze taking in everything in an instant.

Looking back at her, his voice was harsh and grating as he said, "Don't try that at home."

Her answering grin was small but genuine, and she helped pull him first to sitting, then to a standing position. He groaned slightly as he straightened and absently stretched and rubbed his lower back with one hand while he looked around for his bow and arrows; she distantly realized he looked very different without them while in uniform.

"You ready for another bout?" Thor asked, and Steve raised his eyebrows as Clint rolled his shoulders and responded, "Why, you getting sleepy?"

The demigod grinned widely, but his smile fell as Barton's features went suddenly, horribly icy. The entire team looked to where he was focusing, and there, ten yards from them, were two very still, very disciplined men in light SHIELD armor. They seemed content to wait for the moment, their eyes a bright blue that rivaled the sky. Their focus was entirely on the archer. Speeders hummed in the distance but didn't come close to them, and Natasha thought that Loki could certainly go to hell; he was keeping the area clear to give his puppets a good chance to kill Barton.

Tony stepped forward, palm out, and said, "Say goodnight, boys."

Clint snapped, "No! They're mine."

Frowning, Natasha glared at him and countered, "Why yours? We're a team, Barton."

He leveled a rueful look in her direction and responded, "Out of all of us here, who is the least likely to accidentally kill them?"

She didn't answer, her eyes betraying nothing, and he started towards the possessed agents with slow, purposeful steps. Steve, Thor, and Tony gathered around Natasha, their features more than confused, and Thor was the first to speak.

"What does the Hawk mean? He is as strong as the best of us," the Asgardian said, though he didn't glance at Hulk when he did so.

Steve nodded, and Tony gave a half shrug and held out his hand, twisting it back and forth as he said, "Eh…"

Natasha shook her head as she answered, "That's not what he meant, Stark." Her eyes tracing her partner's slightly stiff movements, she continued, "Wait and see."

So the rest of the team watched as Clint moved very carefully forward, favoring his left leg just a bit. He stopped within a dozen feet of the two men, and they stared at each other, bright blue clashing with denim blue, and the world was silent and still for a moment. Smoke and heat wafted through the air, ash fell like snow, and everything was so perfectly quiet that there probably should have been a tumbleweed rolling through the street.

Instead, on some hidden signal, the trio burst into an explosion of movement. The first thug lunged forward, right fist snapping out, intent on laying out Clint with a single blow. Barton blocked the punch with his left arm, snagging the man's forearm with his right hand, and he whirled to catch a second punch from the side, the other thug attempting the same move from the opposite direction. They froze like that for a moment, the archer's long fingers wrapped tightly around their wrists, his arms crossed in front of him. He glanced between the two men, their eyes icy in Loki's control, and he grimaced slightly.

"Don't suppose we can agree to disagree here?"

Yanking hard on the limbs he'd grabbed, he jerked the two men into each other, and they went down in a tangle of legs and arms as he danced backwards a few feet, fists up in a defensive position. They stood without a word, no emotion on their faces, and they started forward immediately.

"Didn't think so," he muttered under his breath.

He waited patiently, letting the fight come to him, and he didn't have to wait long. The first guy – McAllen, his embroidered tag read – darted forward, fists up, and he pelted Clint with quick, fierce blows. Without even blinking, the sniper blocked every single attack, the possessed agent's clenched hands glancing off his forearms again and again.

Then the other man jumped in, and a quick flash of sunlight at the right angle highlighted his name perfectly: Holland. He went at Clint's back, attempting to sneak in while McAllen distracted him, but Barton just turned and deflected his attacks as well, his style morphing to deal with both threats at the same time.

Natasha could feel the team's surprise as the man's quick movements and his apparent skill, but she kept her mouth shut as she watched, her eyes tracking the movements of the three men easily.

"When did he go all Jean Claude Van Damme on us?" Tony whined as he pointed at the fight, his mouth pouting but the rest of his features showing obvious respect.

Steve shook his head and winced as he rubbed at a cut on his forehead, wiping blood away.

"The guy's an enigma wrapped in a mystery. You thought Fury was bad? I think they're neck and neck in the secrets race," he answered, though his words weren't grudging in the least.

Natasha turned towards them at that, her gaze hard and her lips tight.

"You watch your mouth, Rogers. You don't know anything," she snapped, the color in her cheeks a result of anger, not exertion. Blinking, her veracity shocking all of them, the soldier asked, "What did I say?"

Aware of the dangerous verbal ledge she was on, the spy nevertheless stood her ground, though she turned her focus back to the scuffle twenty yards away.

"You don't know anything about his secrets," she said softly, and they all went quiet as the fight continued to play out.

Clint shifted sideways as a kick flew by him, half an inch from his hip. He dropped and spun in the same movement, bending backwards as he did so, his body folding in half towards the ground. The second kick that was headed for him sailed over his face, almost skimming his nose. As it passed, he let his momentum continue to carry him, flipping backwards, his hands propelling him up and away. He landed lightly on his feet facing the two agents, and as they rushed forward, he crouched a bit. They closed the distance in a heartbeat, and Barton abruptly leapt up from his half-kneeling position, flipping backwards again, his boots catching both men in the face. He landed on the first rotation, his fingers never even brushing the ground, and he straightened and dodged as they tried to blitz him yet again.

"Everyone has secrets, Romanoff. What makes him so special?" Steve asked, thinking back to the fact that the two assassins were supposedly the vanguards of the Avengers Initiative; with what he'd seen, he didn't necessarily disbelieve it.

So when Natasha looked over at him, open judgment on her face, he didn't flinch. Instead, he met her gaze evenly, and she seemed slightly appeased.

"Nick's not like that. Neither is Clint. We're all we all have anymore. We've been working together for so long on so many things with so much always at stake…secrets are all we can remember of ourselves some days," she said quietly, her voice tending towards wistfulness, and she looked back at her partner.

Barton shifted to an offensive position and abruptly snapped forward, his left fist catching Holland in the gut, his right elbow breaking through McAllen's hasty defense and catching his back at his kidney. As Holland doubled over and McAllen staggered forward, Clint threw himself to the side, his right arm out, and he caught the ground with a flat palm. His legs came up and from his half-cartwheel position, he kicked out at Holland, striking the agent twice in the head as he tilted. Midway through, he brought his other hand down and caught his forward movement without any effort. He stayed suspended there in a handstand for a second, his eyes tracking everything even in his inverted position, his legs ramrod straight above him. Then he suddenly twisted so he was facing the back of McAllen, who was still recovering, halfway bent over. The sniper bent his elbows and pushed himself off the ground towards the agent, launching himself into the air, and he bent his knees as he flew into the man, landing on him hard, bringing them both down to the asphalt with his kneecaps in the possessed agent's spine. He reached down and tweaked a nerve in McAllen's neck, the other man going limp immediately. Clint did a palm flip forward as he did so, his movements rolling like a wave, and he came to standing in front of Holland, who was still trying to recover from the previous attack.

Thor tilted his head in appreciation of the man's skill while Hulk snorted beside him. Tony whistled lowly and Steve winced slightly, well aware of the fact that his own athleticism was overshadowed now by not only Black Widow but also Hawkeye. It was Tony, predictably, who broke the relative silence.

"So…holy crap. Um, he's kind of a bit of a showoff, huh?"

There was a sharp coldness in Natasha's eyes and she snapped, "He doesn't showboat, Stark, unlike some people. He does his job in the most efficient way possible."

Unruffled by the personal jab, Tony shrugged and said, "Hey, someone on this team's gotta have some pizzazz."

When the spy didn't back off her death glare, Tony held up his hands in surrender and said, "Okay, okay. Good stuff here. He can see everything in whatever hemisphere he's in, he can hit a termite's eyelash from a mile out with a toothpick, he's obviously multilingual and annoying when he decides to use it, and apparently, he can fight like Chuck Norris and Bruce Lee's love child. Anything else we should add to our Robin Hood's repertoire?"

Natasha nodded absently, jerking her chin in the direction of the fight. Tony stared at her hard for a second before diverting his attention, the rest of the team following suit.

Clint turned slowly as Holland circled him, his feet planted firmly, his body following the man's movements, hesitant as they were. The second he was behind Barton he darted forward, but he'd misjudged; the Hawk didn't have a blind spot. Instead Clint neatly sidestepped the agent's headlong rush and ducked an extended arm at the same time, avoiding the reverse clothesline easily. Holland whirled and tore after him again, and while the man's features were the same impassive mask they'd been the entire fight, his movements betrayed Loki's frustration. This time Clint turned and ran as well, his feet carrying him up the side of the husk of a motorcycle and then to the top of an abandoned yellow cab. He jumped up as he ran, his outstretched hands catching the low arm of a traffic signal pole, and he pulled himself up.

He pulled his torso flush against the pole, his legs jackknifed, and he spun on the pole, the movement bringing him vertical, his head towards the ground. At the apex of the spin he straightened his arms and held himself there, again in a perfect handstand, though this time his legs were spread a little wider to assist his balance as the pole danced under his hands. A split second later, he gripped the metal bar tight with his left hand and reached up to his vest with his other, retrieving something small from a hidden pocket, his eyes constantly on his target. Below him, Holland clambered ungracefully to the top of the yellow cab, slipping as he did so. As he reached the area where Barton had jumped, the sniper shifted slightly and let gravity take hold of his body. His grip on the pole slid around as he rotated down, swinging behind Holland. Clint pulled his legs up and let go of the bar, slamming feet first into the unsuspecting agent.

The impact knocked the possessed man forward, off the side of the car. Crouching, Barton maintained his balance on the man's back the whole way, his right hand tight around the back of the Holland's neck. They slid to a halt fifteen feet from the cab, and they were both still for a moment before the sniper finally stood, satisfied with the small dose of knock-out drug he'd administered to the man as they dropped.

He stood there, quietly victorious, his body as tense as his bowstring, and Natasha allowed herself a rare smile as she stared at him.

"Yeah," she suddenly said, answering Tony's previous question. "You can add that."

* * *

End Chapter Eleven


	12. Chapter 12

Title: Bruises – Chapter Twelve

Author: Lucky Gun

Summary: Because Loki's possession of one of the sharpest minds in SHIELD wasn't easy. In fact, it barely worked at all. A better take on Clint's forced defection, return to the Avengers, and the aftermath. Contains whump, language, torture, and all the horrors of a POW. AU.

A/N: I had more than one person get concerned that Clint was being all Gary Lou-ish in the previous chapter (male version of a Mary Sue, in my head). I promise, he wasn't. It's all downhill from here, folks. Chapter eleven was a showcase of his abilities, the peak of his mental fortitude and physical endurance. And he is going to start desperately regretting all that hopping and jumping around here in a minute. He's only human. And Natasha, bless her, is only human as well. And humans make mistakes...

* * *

It was just after the team had finished relocating the unconscious pawns when everything went to hell. The street they were on, while previously quiet, was suddenly lit up by blasts, speeders tearing down the roadway. It made sense that Loki would go after them like that once his men failed to take out Barton, and the concentration of firepower destroyed the street in seconds.

Ducked inside a small coffee shop, Clint watched the speeders fly by, his hands clenching. He needed his bow; it was pathological at that point. Whenever he was stressed or nervous, the cool metal of the frame and the perfectly responsive tension in the bowstring were the only things that could calm him down. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd fired off whole quivers full of arrows at the target range to release stress.

And he was slightly stressed at the moment.

So he scanned the street with his eyes, finding his team first. Natasha and Thor were crouched in the entry of an alleyway, both ducking from the rapid and seemingly unceasing bolts of energy. About thirty feet further down the way, Stark and Hulk were sheltered by the solid steel awning of a hotel entry. Steve was on the same side of the street Clint was, his shield up, his back against a storefront alcove. Satisfied that they were all as safe as the situation allowed, Barton returned to searching for his bow and arrows. He knew his quiver had dropped somewhere in the street near the apartment complex, and his bow had been on the roof when it had blown. He didn't hold out hope it was still intact, much less recoverable.

But then, his eyes widening in shock, he saw them both, five feet from each other, in the middle of the street, surrounded by pieces of building so large he could still determine their purpose. He was distantly reminded of the Indiana Jones movies, the lead character's hat never being but so far away from him, never being left behind. If he'd been a betting man, he'd figure the odds. If he'd been a praying man, he'd offer thanks.

As it was, he was a soldier, and the first thing he did was cuss at how exposed the location was.

"Nat, I've got a problem that I need your help with," he said lowly into his mic, and he ignored the eye roll he could almost hear over the comm.

"Story of my life, Clint," she responded, and Barton smirked a bit before he said, "My weapons are at your two o'clock, right in the middle of the kill box. Any possibility of providing a distraction?"

He gave her a look, then, their eyes catching each other, and their determination was equally reflected. She glanced around, ideas popping into her head so fast he thought he might be able to see an actual light bulb flick on above her.

She nodded and looked back at him as she responded, "Yeah, I think I can manage that. How long do you need?"

Clint looked back at his weapons, wincing slightly as a blast hit a little too close to them, and he did the rapid calculations in his head, mapping his path to the bow and quiver and his retreat from the street in his mind's eye. His eyes darted over the rubble, his route laying itself out for him, and he nodded slightly to himself.

"Eight seconds, give or take a few milliseconds."

Natasha ducked a little further into the alley way as she reloaded her pistols, and her voice rang clearly in his ears as she abruptly said, "This is just like Budapest all over again."

Blinking, Clint stared at her location, his gaze rolling over the corpses of aliens, the pockmarks of extraterrestrial weapon fire, the crushed shells of the speeders that ran on some sort of anti-gravity system, and he grinned mirthlessly.

"You and I remember Budapest very differently."

Then she darted around the corner, her guns blazing as she took potshots at the wave of speeders, ignoring the startled shouts of the team over her comm. For a moment, the enemy fire continued unabated, but then there was a hesitation and their aim redirected towards her. She turned and sprinted for the bowled-over shelter of a cop car, the light bar still glowing. Natasha slid beside it and the bolts followed her. She glanced through the space between the ground and the trunk, the flipped vehicle giving her a limited but solid shield, and her eyes found her partner. He slipped from his hole and dashed across the road, his legs pumping as he nimbly picked his way across the debris in his way. She pulled an extra clip and shoved it into her gun as she watched him.

All this he knew from too many missions with her; he knew her movements almost better than he knew his own. So he didn't hesitate in sliding to the ground, snagging his beloved and deadly weapons with one hand, pulling them firmly over his shoulder with the other. If she was true to form, she'd pick that time to fire off a flare from a hidden shooter she had, especially with the blaster shots abruptly coming closer to him.

He glanced up, confused at the delay, pushing himself to his feet a little ungracefully, and he stared through an ever-advancing wall of blue energy pulses towards her. She was staring back at him, inexplicably frozen, her skin white, her guns almost forgotten in her hands. He was distantly aware of the ground under his feet shuddering with the approaching firepower, of the screamed warnings his instincts and his own team were providing him, but he couldn't give it any attention.

All he could focus on was the abrupt view she had of him: standing in the middle of a destroyed city street, his weapons hot and streaked with ash and death, his face hard, determined, and splattered with human blood, and then his eyes, his dark blue eyes, turned an icy sapphire as they reflected the light of the energy bolts that weren't even touching him.

For a moment, he looked like everything Loki had always planned, everything the demigod had promised and threatened them both with.

He couldn't stop the agony, the terror, the horror and shame from stealing over his features, and his eyes, their usual denim blue, grew hazy with tears. The ground trembled again, the explosions shattering the world around him, and he watched as she startled back to awareness and released the flare, too late. He ducked his head and tried hard, _hard_, to forget the look of fear on her face.

Not fear _for_ him, but fear _of_ him.

Then the asphalt beneath his feet gave one last enormous rumble, and he was suddenly falling into darkness, his eyes clenched shut. The ground swallowed him whole, just like he'd often wanted, and he wondered which he'd feel first: the crushing pressure of the world that seemed to rest on his shoulders, or the flames of hell licking at his heels.

Before he felt either, the blackness took him, and he didn't even fight it.

* * *

It couldn't have been more than five minutes since he fell; his internal clock never lied. But he was choking on dust, the damp air thick, and the time wasn't something he could be bothered with. He tried to look around, a freight train of pain tearing through his system, vibrating through him, shaking his bones. He groaned and coughed, his eyes blinking, pupils wide, and pain gave way to a flood of adrenaline and fear as he blinked again, and saw nothing.

Despite the best training he had, despite everything he'd been through, he couldn't stop the welling panic rising in his body. He tried rolling himself over from his back, something incredibly sharp and uncomfortable digging into his shoulder. He failed as his mind whirled, colors that couldn't be named spinning in vision that was black, and he gagged, barely managing to turn his head in time to vomit to the side, his stomach bringing up nothing but bile.

The retching finally stopped, and for a moment, his head to the side, he caught a sliver of light in his peripheral coming from somewhere high and close. The fear that had been threatening to swallow him up abated slightly as he realized he wasn't blind, just underground.

The relief that had started to flow with his first revelation ebbed immediately with the second. He was underground, someplace no hawk was ever meant to be.

Coughing on the thick dust that still hung in the air, Clint somehow managed to push himself to his feet, bracing himself against a smooth wall with his right hand as his left grabbed awkwardly for his bow. His fingers brushed against the metal frame and the ache in his back intensified exponentially. Panting, the air caking like clay on his tongue, he steeled himself and wrenched the weapon up, startling and taking a step forward as agony seeped from his right shoulder blade. His movements jerky and uncoordinated, he slid the bow over his right arm, tilting a bit as he let go of the wall long enough to slip it over his wrist.

Immediately tabbing the buttons on the grip, Clint rolled the wide laser array across the air in front of him, the red lighting up the area slightly. He could see a shadowed mound of rubble about ten feet in front of him, starting at the floor and ending at the ceiling, about twenty five feet up. There was some small gap where the tiny section of sunlight was forcing its way through. He looked around and noticed the wall he was leaning up against was curved, and it took him a moment to realize he was standing unevenly, his stance nothing to do with his own imbalance. A glance down made him gag again, but he got a good enough look through his watering eyes to see metal bolted to the ground.

The subway. He had fallen into the subway.

His eyes still trained on the mountain of debris in front of him, he cleared his throat painfully and choked out, "This is Barton. Anyone copy?"

The earpiece crackled with soft static, the sound reminiscent of a summer shower, and he coughed, the noise echoing loudly off the concrete walls.

"Hawkeye to Black Widow. You copy?" he tried again, steadfastly ignoring the way his head pounded in time with his heartbeat and the way his limited vision wavered like a mirage.

Again, there was no answer, and he swallowed hard against the panic that continued to seep through him. He eyed the tower of debris again, determining that he couldn't get to the top of the pile, much less dig through it to the surface. He shook his head slightly as he thought about the futility of the plan, and the wave of agony that abruptly coursed through him brought him to his knees, gasping.

With the original adrenaline rush wearing off, he was able to feel the full effects of falling almost thirty feet into a concrete tunnel due to a street exploding underfoot. The heat that pooled under his vest at his shoulder and the tackiness against his hand proved that his bowstring had cut into his shoulder, multiple times by the feel of it. A similar but deeper burning thumped at his left thigh, and he could feel the stinging tightness of sprains around his left knee and ankle. His arms ached and he felt like there was a snake wrapped around his ribs, squeezing his air out of his lungs, and he swore he could faintly hear the scraping as the broken ends of bone rubbed against each other.

His sluggish account of his wounds proved he had hit his head somewhere along the line, and he swiped a hand at the warmth that coated his forehead and dripped into his eyes, unsurprised when he hand came back wet. Grimacing, Clint probed gently at the gash in the side of his head, gamely swallowing back his stomach as it made a valiant attempt at leaping up his throat. He pushed himself back against the wall behind him and carefully slid up it, forcing himself to standing.

"Last chance before I start hitchhiking, Tasha," he murmured into the silence around him, and there was nothing in response.

Frowning slightly as he looked up the tunnel, he wracked his brain for a plan, for some course of action. He had to get back up to the surface somehow, and he thought hard, cringing as he did so. He ran through the files he'd read on New York from a dozen missions ago, maps and diagrams flashing through his mind. He blinked uselessly in the darkness as he recalled news reports from more recent memory, images of an underground ARC reactor with metro access for its workers blaring into recognition.

Inhaling shallowly, breathing slowly against the fear and claustrophobia that tried to batter its way past his crippled defenses, he turned and began to slowly, carefully limp his way down the tunnel. Fortunately, his sense of direction was unhindered by his head wound, and he knew, unerringly, that he was going the right way. So he staggered down the line, his left foot shuffling along the ground, his left hand trailing against the wall, his fingertips leaving invisible red trails along the concrete. He forced himself to ignore the pain like he'd been trained, to ignore the fear, the fuzziness in his mind, the thickness of the air.

He forced himself to not think about the look he'd seen on Natasha's face.

"You don't look so good."

The voice that came too clearly to be over his earpiece and too smoothly to be his teammates' made him freeze, and he swallowed hard, the growing tension in his throat having nothing to do with the strangulation he'd suffered at the hands of the alien on the terrace.

Turning slowly, surprised to see soft blue light beside him, Clint found himself unexpectedly looking into painfully familiar eyes for the second time that day.

Loki.

He scampered backwards on instinct, his movements less those of a highly trained assassin and more of a terrified, injured man. His filters were gone, his walls destroyed, and he found himself whimpering softly in fear.

"God, why can't you just leave me alone?" he whispered, not noticing the stammer that peppered his speech.

Loki smiled softly, his expression as deceptively gentle as his words, and he lifted his scepter, the light from it illuminating the immediate area a bit.

"Why would I want to do that?" he asked rhetorically, and Clint didn't even try to coax saliva into his bone dry mouth as he shut his eyes tight for a moment.

"Haven't you taken enough from me, Loki?" Barton breathed, his eyes sliding open as he leaned heavily against the wall behind him. "You destroyed my mind, turned my heart black, and covered every inch of my soul in blood. What more could you want?"

The demigod seemed to consider this for a moment before he answered almost apologetically, "Your fervent belief in life? Your conviction? I never could rob you of either of those."

Chuckling darkly and groaning as his ribs ground against each other, the agent turned and continued his slow movements down the tunnel, taking advantage of the light Loki's scepter provided. His training was too ingrained to keep him from using whatever part of the situation he could to further his mission, even though the innermost parts of him were trembling with terror and rage at the proximity of the creature beside him.

"You are still fighting, even with everything weighing down on you," Loki abruptly said, and the sniper ignored the tone of disconcertion he thought he could hear in the Asgardian's voice. Apparently unruffled by Barton's silence, he walked next to him and continued, "I've destroyed you in every possible way I could conceive, in every way the Tesseract has allowed me. I've put you through the worst hells I could imagine. And yet you beat me."

Stumbling a moment as another wave of nausea peaked, Clint fell roughly against the side of the tunnel, and his head felt like it was about to roll off of his shoulders. He attempted to swallow back the instinct that thundered through him, but he couldn't stop the gagging from evolving into vomiting as the taste of concrete covered his tongue, and he doubled over, throwing up again. He choked and coughed, tears pricking the corners of his eyes with the exertion and the hot agony that wrapped around his skull and chest. As the attack wore off, he panted shallowly and glanced up, shocked to find the image of Loki kneeling right in front of him, studying him with an intensity that was, frankly, disturbing.

"The hell you want, Loki? Just take it already. Not in a position to fight this time," he wheezed, annoyance coming to the forefront; if he was going to die in a subway, he'd prefer not to have a deranged demigod circling him like a vulture.

Standing as Clint pushed himself back to almost vertical, Loki continued walking with him, his porcelain skin almost translucent in the dim light the spear gave off.

"Neither were you in a position to resist previously, Agent Barton. Yet still you did, and successfully. Your resistance gave me the key to the domination of your people," he said, and he stopped so suddenly that Clint wholeheartedly hoped the man's physical body had been dealt a deathblow.

Instead of disappearing, the image of Loki just turned to him with animated frustration on his features. Barton had long since shoved his bow onto his back again, his right arm wrapped around his ribs for support, and his left hand continued to guide him along the wall. He didn't think he had anything to physically fear from the apparition beside him, but still, his right hand started edging towards one of his knives as he forced himself to ignore the dull ache in his left side that was rapidly growing in discomfort.

"I made you live through some of the worst memories you have, I made you kill people you lived to protect, I made you attack your best – your only – partner. I destroyed everything inside you and left you with nothing but a faint memory of what you were, of who you were."

Wincing, Barton muttered dryly, "Thanks for the reminder."

Ignoring him, the apparition stared straight ahead for a moment before turning back to the archer, his anger not dimmed a bit.

"You should be rolling in guilt. You should be boiling in it, soaking in it, mindless of its heat until it finally cooks you alive. You should be crushed with despair and defeat," Loki bit out, trembling slightly, and against his better judgment, Clint responded harshly, "And who's to say I'm not? You think that because you saw a few things I've lived through, saw a few things I've done and had done to me, you think that you know me? That you know how to break me?"

Obviously agitated but still keeping pace with him, Loki refuted, "Better men have broken into more pieces after less."

Glaring at the coldhearted man beside him, Clint rallied a bit of strength and put it into his voice as he answered, "You can't break something that's already shattered."

"So you admit you were already a fragment of life, a shell of a man. But still you fought then and fight now. How do you fight on? Why?" Loki snapped, his hands clenched tight against the scepter in his hands.

His hand finally abandoning its fruitless quest for a knife, Clint dropped his palm back to his left side as the heat swelled and pressed hard, ducking his head and exhaling sharply against the added pain. There was burnt moisture seeping through his vest, and the agent barely even realized he'd fallen against the side of the tunnel until he opened his eyes and saw the blue light above him instead of beside him.

Blinking at the very obvious reminder of the mission he'd been given, Clint breathed as deeply as he could and clamped his hand tight against the hidden wound, biting his lip hard as the pain flooded his system. Loki watched him with something akin to confusion in his eyes, and for a split second, the agent could almost see through him.

"I fight because I can when others can't. Because there are things in this world worth fighting for. Because there are things…there are people worth dying for," he whispered, the faces of his team, his friends, what was rapidly becoming his family through the heat of battle, flaring to life in his mind.

The look Loki was giving him disappeared into abrupt shock, and the apparition disappeared, the surprisingly reassuring blue glow of the scepter vanishing into darkness. Clint stared at the space where he'd been for a moment, wondering about the thing's quick exit, but then he thought of the ARC reactor, of the subway line he was in that led to it, of the elevator shafts that went straight up the center of the tower.

He had to get there. He couldn't stop.

So he pushed himself to his feet and kept his scream behind his teeth as he trudged on, determined to reach the roof of Stark Tower. From there he could continue sniping (if he could actually pull his bowstring back). Or he could take down Loki (if he could manage to see through the blood dripping into his eyes). Or he could contact the helicarrier and inform the director what was going on (if they hadn't changed his access codes again). Or he could find the rest of the team (if his comm system would work again).

Or he could jump off the edge of the building and kill himself.

(If he could get there.)

* * *

End Chapter Twelve


	13. Chapter 13

Title: Bruises – Chapter Thirteen

Author: Lucky Gun

Summary: Because Loki's possession of one of the sharpest minds in SHIELD wasn't easy. In fact, it barely worked at all. A better take on Clint's forced defection, return to the Avengers, and the aftermath. Contains whump, language, torture, and all the horrors of a POW. AU.

A/N: And here's the rest of the team, because there's gotta be there some team stuff somewhere. And that's apparently here. And my beta is hilarious. Seriously. Gotta love me some SpenChester.

* * *

The street erupted in unearthly silence as the last of the speeders flew off, their blasts fading into nothingness. It was several seconds before the five members of the Avengers team slowly raised their heads, surveying the destruction. Natasha had ducked back behind the police car, her guilt heavy, her mind barely wrapping around what she'd done, what she hadn't done, what she thought she'd seen. She cast her eyes over the street, unfamiliar panic fluttering through her system.

"Does anyone see him?" she called out as she picked her way across the street.

There were silent negatives across the air. Thor's gaze shifted over the ground, searching, and Steve toed towards the middle of the street carefully. It looked like a sinkhole had hit, masses of rubble and a few decrepit cars frozen in a downward spiral.

"Careful, Captain. That road is barely holding itself together," Tony warned, his HUD bringing up a thorough diagram of the damage.

Hulk stepped forward, his fists clenched, and Steve held up his hand, motioning him backwards.

"Stark's right. This thing's a house of cards. If he survived, we might bring it down on top of him."

A muscle in Thor's cheek twitched, and the entire team turned to look at the only assassin still standing. Natasha stepped forward lightly, getting as close to the damage as possible, and she blinked hard as a hundred thoughts assaulted her.

First and foremost? He couldn't be dead.

The man had enough lives that Coulson had joked they should've codenamed him Cateye, instead. He'd lived through every botched mission and everything else the world could throw at him. So he wasn't going to get taken down by something so simple as a collapsed street.

"What's below us, Stark? Any service tunnels?" Steve asked into the silence, and the man in the metal suit nodded.

"There's an offshoot of the public subway system down there, privatized for the use of my building's employees. It leads straight to the ARC reactor. If he's…he might be able to make it there, provided the rest of the line is clear," he answered, hesitating only once.

Thor shook his head, his frustration with his brother's actions obvious, but before anyone could say anything else, there was a crackle of noise over their earpieces. It faded and was filled with static, and Natasha cocked her head uselessly to try and zero in on the sound better. If she didn't know better, she'd think it was the sound of someone getting sick.

"This is Barton. Anyone copy?"

Her heart leapt a bit at his words, no matter that he was apparently having difficulty forcing them out.

Pressing a finger against her earpiece, she answered, "Copy, Barton. What's your status?"

There was a heavy cough and she winced as the noise echoed loudly in her ear.

"Hawkeye to Black Widow. You copy?"

Frowning slightly, she said, "Clint, I copy. We're directly above you but the structure's too unstable to get to you."

There was a brief radio silence before there were what could only be described as the sounds of pain. There was a scuffle, a gasp, a sound of heavy breathing. There was a half minute of silence, then there was another sound of boots against concrete.

"Last chance before I start hitchhiking, Tasha."

Exhaling sharply, the spy abruptly realized that her partner's comm was transmitting, but not receiving. Still, on the off chance he could hear something…

"Clint, head northeast if you can. It'll take you to the levels under Stark Tower. Do you copy?" she tried, but there was no response, only a determined step-scuffle.

Still, he was moving, breathing, alive, and that was all she supposed she could ask for. She turned back to the rest of the team, hoping her relief didn't show too brightly on her face, and she opened her mouth the speak.

The noise she heard, though, wasn't her own voice.

"You don't look so good."

Thor jumped and spun, while Tony and Steve exchanged an alarmed look. Hulk growled and jerked in place. Natasha just stared at nothing, her face going white, and she raised terrified eyes to the Asgardian in front of her.

"Loki's with him."

* * *

Tony flew through the air, his palms glowing like a pair of suns as he shot down speeder after speeder. He could hear the conversation in his earpiece, like they all could. He tried to ignore the sound of gasping, of vomiting, and he instead focused on Loki's words. The guy had to trip himself up somewhere, somehow. There was no way a guy with a brain like a bag full of cats wouldn't give a tell. But he faltered, staggering when a speeder crashed into him, the pained words of his teammate flowing over him, his voice like molten fear.

"You destroyed my mind, turned my heart black, and covered every inch of my soul in blood. What more could you want?"

He bit back a choked laugh as he heard that, ducking his head slightly, all joking gone from him. The archer's words replayed themselves in his mind again and again, and he wondered, briefly, if the man was actually psychic.

How often had he thought those same words of himself? How many times had he whispered them to Pepper in the hold of some drunken stupor?

The world at large may have forgiven him for ceasing weapons manufacturing at Stark Industries, but certain people hadn't. Starting with Obadiah Stane, ending with the latest arms dealer he'd fought in Cairo, more and more people were clamoring for him to get back into the weapons building business.

But how could he?

These same people that begged for his destructive gifts didn't realize how much he himself had already been destroyed by them. He'd lost sleep long before his imprisonment over news reports on the sheer effectiveness of his missiles. He'd desensitized himself to it eventually, swearing that he was doing the right thing. Then he'd seen American soldiers – kids, really – get killed by the very weapons he created to protect them. And the world still begged for more?

Really, what more could they want?

He knew what Barton was facing because he'd faced it himself. Maybe not as literally, but he'd been hijacked as well. His intentions, his beliefs, his company had all been twisted to serve something other than what he knew to be right. And then his definition of right and wrong had received a three month tune-up. He'd created the Iron Man and gone on to fight evil, right wrongs within himself, and he finally turned himself into someone who deserved Pepper.

Barton? From what he could see, the man had done enough of his own soul-searching before most kids were out of high school. He'd been on the bad side of good and the downside of up before SHIELD had found him, if he remembered correctly from his hacking. The archer had been wrong, had done worse, and then made some good choices, and was constantly making amends for the bad ones. He'd started over.

And Loki's damn scepter had taken him, in the agent's mind, back to square one.

Grinding his teeth as he desperately fought his way towards Stark Tower, where he knew Loki was, the genius occupied himself with creative ways of sealing the alien's lying tongue. When super glue and duct tape gave way to high tension carbon facemasks, he allowed himself the smallest of smiles.

Damned if he was going to let the guy keep talking crap about his team.

* * *

"I destroyed everything inside you and left you with nothing but a faint memory of what you were, of who you were."

Thor barreled through a mass of enemies as he heard his brother's voice in his ear, taunting, seductive, like the snake in the garden. He could hear what the rest of them could not: the darker lilt in the words that spoke of hypnotic magic, though it was tinged with a desperation he hadn't noticed in previous encounters with it.

He swung his hammer again as he absently thought back to one of the last times he'd seen his brother but winced and blocked out the memory. For some reason, the imagery of Loki falling through the heavens, his eyes locked on their father's face, his face full of fear and abandonment and icy resolution, was too much like Barton's situation in his mind.

Left underground, alone in the dark, with a sudden specter of pain and memory to guide him through the cold tunnels, the archer was somehow still moving forward, was still fighting.

Armed with a new respect for the man, even though he'd thought it could go no higher, Thor continued to fight the aliens that poured endlessly from the gash in the sky, even as his thoughts turned infinitely more despairing when he thought about what his brother said, what he implied.

He had walked the Hawk's mind. He'd seen firsthand the destruction that he'd only ever heard of in the worst interrogations performed on Asgard upon traitors and spies. The physical ramifications of Loki's assault had been severe, and Thor's impression of the medical abilities of Earth went up greatly with the simple fact that the man was on his feet, almost visibly healthy. But he also knew that the mental scars wouldn't heal as quickly as the rest of the team thought. Cracked marble doesn't repair itself, and the effort it takes to resurrect broken timber can be staggering.

So he knew Loki wasn't exaggerating. He had made the man into nothing, locked away his innermost self in darkness and memory. He had stripped Barton of what made him Barton. Any lesser man wouldn't have been able to fight it.

But Hawkeye had not only forced the demigod from his mind, he'd come back to them, hurt, choking on fear and anger and agony, but almost whole. He'd repelled the attacks again and again when Loki was inside, saving countless, gaining important intel. But Barton couldn't recognize the good he'd done, only the pain he'd caused.

Shouting a war cry and throwing his hammer at a particularly determined enemy, Thor thought back to what little he knew of the man's history, briefly touching on the feats he'd already seen the sniper perform. But he also remembered the way the redheaded spy's eyes had shifted sideways when she mentioned that Loki had taken not only Selvig, but one of SHIELD's agents as well. His sister had commented that he often did the same thing when discussing Loki's treason with their father. She told him it indicated deep respect that couldn't be shared, that shouldn't be mentioned, but was nonetheless present. Thor knew, in his case, that it was love for his brother, even in his flawed and fallen state; they were still brothers. Between the Hawk and the Spider, he knew it was something more, something unspoken and still ingrained in their hearts. Though he would never forget it, he'd let the archer believe that he hadn't noticed the image of the spy that had comforted his inner self while he died. It was the only solace the man seemed to allow himself, though he deserved infinitely more. And if he never took hold of it, if he never chose to believe he deserved that, Thor placed the blame squarely at his brother's feet.

For his interference in the man's already limited happiness, though, Thor would make Loki pay. By Odin, he'd make him pay.

* * *

He felt his own rage almost matched the other guy's, and it didn't surprise him. After all, the silky voice that was flowing through his ear made him slightly nauseous, and any kind of discomfort always made the big guy angry. So he worked with it instead of against it, and he fought his way across the city block mindlessly, giving himself over entirely to the other guy's instincts.

Bruce was slightly perplexed by the entirely animalistic emotions coming over his connection with his greener half, and he tried to separate them from his own feelings. He knew that Hulk saw the team as a pack, the lack of a clear alpha not bothering him in the slightest. To the big guy, there was no need for such hierarchy when all that needed to be done was protect the pack, protect the pack's responsibilities. At the moment, those responsibilities included the town of New York City and its citizens, and he wouldn't hurt them, wouldn't let them be hurt. So he let Hulk fight, trusting him, for the first time, completely.

"You should be boiling in it, soaking in it, mindless of its heat until it finally cooks you alive."

Hulk gave a particularly loud bellow at those words, and Bruce didn't even try to reign it in. He was acutely acquainted with guilt, the other guy feeling it too, their emotions bleeding into each others' minds. They were one in the same – one heart, one soul – but entirely different. The thing that remained constant between the two of them was the guilt.

Hulk felt guilt when he didn't move fast enough, destroy fast enough, hurt an enemy enough. Misplaced and slightly frustrating guilt, but guilt nonetheless.

And Bruce? Well, his guilt was plain and simple: he felt guilty for living.

Hearing Loki put it so quaintly, so coldly, made him stop and wonder if he and Barton were more alike than he first thought. And why wouldn't they be? Both taken control of by something they hated, something they feared, and forced to kill in the name of nothing they believed in, they would have some common bond, greenness not withstanding.

The alien's reference to boiling frog syndrome should've shocked him, but he supposed that the demigod had learned much about the Earth during his wait on the edge of space. The Tesseract supposedly showed something more than knowledge; it showed truth. So what was Barton's truth? What was the one thing that his soul held onto when everything else hit the fan?

Even before Hulk's answering flood of emotion had rushed over him, he understood: it was the debt. The archer was under a mountain of it, a granite weight of history and mistakes looped around his neck and over his shoulders, choking him until he couldn't even breathe. The sniper didn't need the water to heat up gradually; it had been boiling for years, frying every sense of self-preservation and self-worth in the process. No wonder the man had jumped in front of the team to protect them from Loki's blast. The agent didn't think he even deserved life, so he might as well sacrifice it for something he deemed worthy.

Mentally clenching his jaw, Bruce gave Hulk a reassuring wave of approval as the other guy turned his attention to Stark Tower. He didn't care what it took, he would get there. He'd get to the top. And he'd show the demigod what happened when you messed with the pack.

* * *

"Better men have broken into more pieces after less."

Steve bit back his responses at that, knowing Barton wouldn't hear him and hating it. The entire thing with Loki was making him sick. Alien raiders fell underneath his onslaught as he took out his frustration on their weak points. The voice, thick as honey and as suffocating as smoke, tickled his inner ear, making it ache. He almost wished the sounds of battle would drown it out, but given how he had treated the man so far, he didn't know if he deserved that luxury.

Decapitating an enemy with his shield, Steve flinched a little as he recalled just how hard he'd been on the archer. He hadn't ever been in the same situation, betrayed and an unwilling betrayer. He'd never worked with anyone who'd done that. The closest he'd come to that sort of situation was when his abilities and unwitting fame had been used to sell war bonds throughout the country. But he'd allowed it, grudging but understanding. Wars ran on two things: money and men. Sometimes they only ran on the men that had the money (as he'd learned from Stark).

But despite the fact that magic had been involved, that the agent had resisted the entire way, proof of his resistance obvious in every movement they could track, Steve hadn't given him a single chance. Even with the Hail Mary shot the archer had successfully made while putting himself in the line of fire, and even after all the stunts he'd pulled during the fight so far, the super soldier still didn't fully trust him.

There was no damned reason for it, either.

He knew that Barton was as broken as Loki said; he could see it in his eyes when he had fought them in the bathroom, had seen it in the way he looked at Natasha in the quinjet. It had been a long time since he'd seen that much despair in a man's face, and he'd only gotten a glance of it: Bucky, watching Steve try to get to him, knowing he was seconds away from death, knowing he was leaving his best friend to fight the cruel and harsh world alone.

If there are enough breaks in the glass, though, no matter how dirty the pane is, some light will make its way through the cracks. And those rays of light shone through Barton clearly, even though the agent couldn't see it in himself, even though Steve refused to trust the brightness he could see. It was obvious in the way he fought against the magic holding him, through Loki's constant lies, through the fear and horror and his own self-damnation. It was visible in the way he trusted the team even when they didn't trust him, in the way he still fought for them against every impossible odd, every long shot bet.

Steve shook his head harshly as he viciously fought his way towards the tall tower too far away from him. He was going to stop Loki anyway he could and wipe that smug look off his face. He had to.

Because in his heart of hearts, personal friendships included, operating on only the facts as he was trained to do so incredibly long ago, the soldier was certain of one thing.

Steve didn't know if there was a better man in the world than the one Loki was tormenting.

* * *

Natasha didn't know if she was going to choke on terror or indignation first. Both feelings were welling up in her throat, almost uncontrolled, and she didn't know if she even wanted to stop them. All she could do was flip and sprint and pray that she'd get there in time, that she'd manage to shut Loki up before he managed to shut her partner down.

She could hear his pain, could hear everything he was trying to hide from the demigod that was still determined to destroy him. She could hear his desperation, his fear, his confusion. She could hear the shuffling steps he took along the tunnel, his limp pronounced to her ear. She could almost taste his guilt, it hung so thick in the air.

But she couldn't see anything beyond her own actions – or rather, inaction – that had led him to such a dark place, figuratively and literally. She knew what she thought she saw in the middle of that street. It had been so clear for a moment: the death, the smoke, the blood, and the shining, shimmering, sapphire eyes that seemed to rule over all of it.

"You can't break something that's already shattered."

God, didn't she know that to be true. He may have been parroting back her own words to Loki, they seemed so familiar. How many times had he put her back together? How long had it taken when she first joined SHIELD? She'd been so frustrated by his question back on the helicarrier, though he definitely had more than adequate reason to ask. But yes, she knew what it was like to be unmade. She had been destroyed, broken into a million pieces, and Clint had slowly, painstakingly, carefully put her back together again.

Part of her was thankful for his efforts; after all, it was easier to move if the shards of yourself didn't cut you up every single time you breathed. But another, less human part of her missed the anonymity of the broken glass. There was nothing to care about and, therefore, nothing to fear.

The sniper had changed all of that, and whether it was for the better or worse, only time could tell. So far, their record was speaking well enough for both of them. They had the highest number of closed missions, the highest number of commendations in their files, and, despite their overwhelming popularity with the medical staff, the lowest ratio of success to injury out of all the active agents. So she thought maybe he had done well.

But how could she even begin to start putting him back together? He was infinitely more complex than her; Fury had likened them both to an onion, while Coulson had amended it with just a touch of attitude in that I-wear-sunglasses-at-night way he did things.

"She's an onion, all right, boss; one of those spring onions that either melt in your mouth or burn your tongue, and you can't even tell which until it's too late. But Barton is a shot in the dark; he can't be defined by what you see or even what you don't see. He exists as himself, and what he is, we'll never know."

Natasha knew Coulson had been right. Her partner was equally touchable and untouchable. He lived at a distance but felt the world keenly, living vicariously through a sniper scope that was permanently and invisibly settled between him and the rest of humanity. Unlike her, unlike many agents and other men and women in their harsh line of work, he not only _felt_, he celebrated the fact. He took every loss and every win and tattooed them on his soul, line after line of successes and failures defining him.

She fought her way towards the tower and wondered if his soul had run out of room.

* * *

The fighting seemed to lull momentarily as the world hesitated in its axial spin. The team paused, their ears almost pricking upwards like a dog's, as they heard Loki's harsh question, his demanding words soaking through them.

"How do you fight on? Why?"

There was a scuffle, a gasp, a struggle for control and focus in a reality completely devoid of it. Silence was as heavy as lead and each second was worth its weight in gold. They waited, breath bated, for their teammate's answer, hating the voyeurism but determined to not leave him alone with the demigod's presence.

"I fight because I can when others can't. Because there are things in this world worth fighting for. Because there are things…there are people worth dying for."

They could almost hear their names in the gentle static after that, and the quiet grew profound. Then Hulk roared, screamed, primal and terrifying, and he jumped straight up the side of Stark Tower. Three leaps later, he disappeared into the penthouse.

* * *

End Chapter Thirteen


	14. Chapter 14

Title: Bruises – Chapter Fourteen

Author: Lucky Gun

Summary: Because Loki's possession of one of the sharpest minds in SHIELD wasn't easy. In fact, it barely worked at all. A better take on Clint's forced defection, return to the Avengers, and the aftermath. Contains whump, language, torture, and all the horrors of a POW. AU.

A/N: Sorry for the delay in posting! We got hit hard here in VA with that super storm and we just got power back yesterday. Then our A/C was fried and it's hard to write when it's 92F in your house. The last chapter may have come across as a little repetitive, but it's simply two sides of the same coin to me. More understanding of a character is always better than less, I believe. Thanks to everyone for sticking so long with this story, by the way. It was honestly supposed to be a two or three chapter deal, but it kind of grew on its own. Also, regarding the end of this chapter…yes, I know I'm evil. I'm well aware a few of you are going to want to gank me for this. I know that you're going to call me dark side and awful. But come join me…we have cookies!

* * *

Clint wouldn't ever verbally acknowledged the amount of relief he felt upon seeing the bright white rectangle of light as he came around a bend in the tunnel. Even with the dark and dead subway train parked at the platform and six feet of height to navigate between him and the hallway, his spirits rose with the illumination.

Pushing away the pain in his thigh and the constant, breath-robbing ache in his side, he limped forward quickly, his mouth dry with the exertion. He came up on the back on the subway car and breathed a deep and heavy sigh of thanks when he found the rear access door open a crack. Wedging his battered fingers in the crevice, he pulled the door open, his back and shoulders burning with the effort. Forcing the hydraulic system, Barton stopped when he had enough room to shimmy into the car. He hauled himself into the tram and fell bonelessly onto the floor, groaning in appreciation as thick, soft fibers caressed his face. Stark hadn't spared any expense when it came to his building's reputation, and had apparently demanded the best when it came to his employees' transportation. Breathing in the smell of new carpet, new paint, and the dim but still sharp smell of new electronics, Clint counted to thirty before pushing himself to his knees.

The agent leveled himself to his feet with the aid of the closest seat and glanced around, taking in the car with the light spilling over from the platform. It was bright white, trimmed with polished chrome, and there were computer screens everywhere, dark in their power loss. Shaking his head carefully, slightly amused at the man's technophilia, Clint stepped carefully over to the doors that led to the platform. He wasn't as lucky this time; they were shut tight. He ducked slightly to the side and ran his hands over the paneling along the framework, smiling a bit in the dusk when his fingers trailed over the manual release. He pulled the handle and the hydraulics hissed as they gave. Pushing his way through the doors, he blinked owlishly as he found himself in the middle of all the light that was his beacon of hope at the end of the tunnel.

Clearing his vision quickly, he limped towards the only doorway he could see, suppressing shivers; the white tiled room was cool, and he knew he was leaving blood streaks across the wall he was staggering against every few steps. The lack of sound was eerie, but he pushed it away and instead focused on getting to the metal door thirty feet in front of him. As he drew closer, the calm he was forcing on himself started to grate on his nerves as he took in the electronic keypad at the side of the door.

Just as he was about to start taking it apart, it gave a beep, a light turned green, and he heard the locks disengage. Blinking his confusion and really, _really_ trying hard to shed the heebie jeebies that rolled over him, he pushed the door open and stared down the second hallway in front of him, this one covered in shiny black tile.

"It's a pleasure to see you in one piece, Agent Barton."

The voice startled him and before he could think he had his bow drawn and an arrow nocked, though he couldn't figure where to aim. His eyes darted from wall to wall as he tried desperately to locate the owner of the voice, his arms almost giving out in the few seconds he had the weapon at the ready. Then his heart slowed long enough for him to think and his held breath left him in a whoosh.

"Jarvis," he choked out, his hands dropping, fingers automatically putting the arrow back in his quiver.

"Yes, Agent Barton. My apologies for startling you. Many of my functions have been damaged in attacks aboveground and I was not able to assist you until this moment."

Nodding and feeling his pulse drop back to a little closer to normal, Clint started towards the opposite door and replied, "Thanks for opening the door. Can you do the same trick on the next one?"

There was only the slightest hesitation before the AI responded, "Unfortunately, I cannot. I don't recommend explosives, as the barrier consists of six inch steel panels welded together with titanium rods in a crosshatch pattern. You would not be successful."

Clint leaned against the wall at the second door's electronic keypad to take some weight off his leg as he pulled open the side of the mechanism, forcing his tired brain to work.

"Yeah, that'd be an understatement. You have any idea how the rest of the team's doing?" he asked as he fingered the fifty million or so multicolored wires that spilled from the guts of the keypad, blinking as his eyes burned.

"I am in contact with Mr. Stark in the Iron Man Mark VII suit, if you wish me to connect you, sir," the AI offered, and Clint nodded, forgoing a verbal response as he followed two yellow wires with his eyes for a few inches before going back and tracing three red ones instead; it wasn't well known that he was more than proficient in security systems of all kinds, though it should be assumed, given his line of work.

There was a split second of silence before the room lit up with the rather obnoxious voice of the man whose security systems were giving the assassin a headache.

"What the hell do you mean, 'I might want to get a better keypad', Jarvis?"

Unable to stop the slight smile from tugging at the corners of his lips, Clint said, "He means I've just slaughtered your second security checkpoint and the door's opening…now."

As he spoke, he pulled two of the three red wires from one side of the panel and watched as the door unlocked and swung open. Ducking into the room, Barton breathed a deep and thankful sigh as the utilitarian entry gave way to a more business-like atmosphere, complete with mahogany wood trim, brass accents, and executive carpet that made the tram's flooring look like patio-ready berber.

"Wait, who did what? Barton, is that you?" Tony asked, and a dark and abused section of the assassin's mind warmed a bit at the hopeful tone in his voice.

Managing to keep his voice mostly level, Clint answered, "No, it's the Easter Bunny. Happy Hanukkah."

The staccato bark of laughter that echoed through the hall didn't hurt his ears as much as he thought it might.

"I don't think that's going to earn you many friends in the religious sectors, Barton."

Shrugging slightly and biting back the sharp groan that accompanied the movement, Clint's voice was still tight when he responded, "When I get finished helping to save their lives, they can kick my ass."

Stark heard what the spy tried to hide and his tone lost all of its joking instantly.

"Jarvis!"

Apparently, the AI's name snapped in that tone was an order in and of itself, because a moment later, the computer responded to the implied question.

"My sensors indicate Agent Barton has several deep lacerations on his back and shoulder blades, a hairline fracture in his left femur, a concussion, multiple cracked and broken ribs, muscle strains, internal abrasions to several major groups of ligaments and tendons, a significant head wound, tracheal bruising and trauma, a sprained ankle, a sprained knee, deep chest congestion due to inhalation of construction dust, and approximately two dozen areas of deep tissue trauma. Most alarming, sir, is the fact that Agent Barton was apparently injured by a piece of rebar when the street collapsed; it punctured the left side of his torso approximately an eighth of an inch above his spleen. It did not completely impale him, but my sensors appear to be damaged, as I cannot determine the level of injury his organ has sustained. He is also suffering from shock and continuing blood loss."

There was a heavy silence following the AI's description, and Clint frowned slightly, glancing down at himself in the bright light. The blood seeping through his vest was hard to ignore, but comparing the computer's rundown to his own medical file, he knew he'd had worse.

"Huh."

A split second later, Tony exploded, "Huh? That's all you can say after that? I didn't know SHIELD agents were so damned eloquent. What the hell did you do to yourself, Barton? Dammit, Jarvis, get a read on his internal organs somehow."

Understanding the man's worry, Clint needlessly waved a hand in the general direction of the hole in his side and answered, "No need, Stark. Had three quarters of my spleen removed and the rest relocated after a mission went south."

Jarvis responded with a very human, "Ah," while Tony seemed to stew for a minute.

"You had it relocated?"

Turning in a slow circle as he took in the way the hallway divided into three different branches, Clint responded absently, "Yeah. I apparently had a target painted there or something. After the third injury to it, Deluca just moved it closer to my spine, behind my stomach. Said she was tired of patching it up."

There were a few moments of precious silence before Tony abruptly started rambling over the radio, "So your body is the Magical Mystery Tour of medical science, apparently. You realize you shouldn't even be on your feet right now, but no, you've got to go and be this stupid superhero of the hour and keep walking and fighting and doing everything anyone else would definitely not be doing."

The desert in his mouth was becoming distracting, and Clint started down the hallway that seemed the most used, the heavily-tread carpet telling more stories than he had time to read. He halfheartedly wished he had a pistol or some other small, easy to use weapon, because his vest was rubbing the back and shoulder lacerations Jarvis had mentioned in all the wrong ways, and he honestly wasn't sure he would be able to string his bow again.

He came across a water fountain next to an elevator bay, and he almost tuned out the billionaire's continuing rant as he drank heavily, the icy water refreshing him while the swallowing simultaneously drew at his flagging reserves, the pain cutting.

"You jump off buildings and get tossed into the air like a sack of potatoes and you do some crazy acrobat thing on a radio tower and you turn into a skinny white Blade without the annoying vampires but at least they don't sparkle and then you go all evil Jackie Chan on those two possessed guys and then you get blown up and fall into the subway and we were almost about to send Lassie in after you and why the hell aren't you answering me?"

Clint ignored him as he started choking on the water as he drank a little too deeply, his coughing shattering the silence of the room, the agony that abruptly enveloped him shocking what little breath he had out of his lungs. He braced himself on the chrome water fountain with both hands, his eyes clenched shut as he coughed so hard he gagged, missing the blood that he spat out, the crimson flowing down the drain with the constant flow of water. He gasped in half a lungful of air and coughed again and again, his eyes watering and white spots flashing across the back of his eyelids. The pain in his chest rose to mind-numbing levels, and he wasn't even aware he had crashed to the ground until his broken leg and torn back screamed their own protests. Panting heavily, he curled up into a ball and wrapped his arms around his chest, all bravado out the window as he prayed to just breathe through the attack.

His hearing suddenly rang in his head with words he could barely understand in a voice he could barely recognize. Choking on his own fear, Clint grabbed for the normalcy with both hands, desperate for air and help.

"Breathe, Clint. In and out, nice and slow. Think of a clock, okay? Breathe in on one tick, out on the fourth tick. In on the first, out on the fourth. Slow it down, buddy. You aren't gonna die, not like this and not on my watch. Breathe in like this, out like this. Come on; breathe, buddy."

Grasping the wisdom of the words, Clint forced his body to respond to him as he followed the advice. As his breathing slowed from near-hyperventilating levels and the sound of his heart pounding faded slightly, he uncurled slightly, wincing as he rolled, the quiver under his shoulder pressing harshly against the cuts on his back. But the pain helped bring his senses back to full alertness, and he swallowed back a cough that was hanging in his throat.

"Thanks," he croaked as he forced himself to his knees, his right arm wrapped around his chest.

The voice that came back over the comm was more worried than he'd yet heard it.

"Thank me later. Let me get your girlfriend on the phone, Cupid; she'll probably want to know you're dying in my basement."

Barton shook his head immediately, cringing as his concussion made pain swim through his veins, and he growled, "Don't even think about it. She needs to focus, Stark. Worrying about my health is just going to get her killed."

The responding snort of bemusement rang through the air as Clint finally made it to his feet, leaning heavily on the wall.

"Yeah, and me not telling her is oh so great for _my_ health." There was a pause, then Tony asked in a gentler tone, "You're not dying on us, are you, Barton?"

Refusing to acknowledge the sentiment, the archer said, "You need to focus too, Stark. Where's the team?"

He listened to the man's updates as he staggered towards what looked like a maintenance closet hidden slightly behind an indoor palm bush. Pushing it open and finding an embarrassment of janitorial riches in the ten by ten space, his eyes roved the shelves restlessly.

"Everyone's just peachy, actually, except for the scrapes and bruises here and there. Hulk went after Loki and turned him into a pancake on the top floor, Steve's doing his whole Captain America 'Real Men of Genius' thing over at a bank, Thor's thinking everything is a nail, yours truly is currently doing a spectacular Superman impression, and the only woman to ever intimidate me except for Pepper is flying around on a speeder trying to get to the damned generator."

Ignoring the flash of concern that branded itself across his mind when he visualized that last part, he finally found was he was looking for and grabbed it off the top shelf, hissing when his arm reminded him it didn't like to be extended like that. Still, he grabbed the tube of silicone caulking and a few paper towels before leaving the room, the metal door slamming shut behind him. He paused at the water fountain and wet down the towels, knowing from previous experience that it wasn't a bad idea. He limped over to a desk situated between two elevator doors and sat gingerly on the buttery leather seat. Clint set his procured equipment on the desktop and glanced at the items previously on the surface.

He saw a photo in the corner, the typical mom-dad-son-daughter picture bright and happy in its frame. He stared at the teenage daughter, the preteen son, the gray hair on the dad's head, and the puffy lips and smooth forehead of the mom who was slightly older than middle aged. Sitting in the seat quietly for a moment, he closed his eyes and visualized the woman who worked there: he saw her sitting at the desk, her eyes creased in pain from her last cosmetic procedure, wincing as she rebuffed the concerned looks from her coworkers filing in, her right hand dipping down to the lowest drawer, her eyes darting around, ensuring there were no observers…

Eyes snapping open, Clint shifted and toed open the bottom right drawer with his boot, a faint smile tracking across his face as he took in the three orange pill bottles in the bottom, partially hidden by papers. He pulled them and sat them on the desk, reading the labels quickly. Prescriptions for an oxycodone and paracetamol mix, tibolone, and alprazolam stared back at him. He ran through the list mentally: percocet, synthetic hormone replacement for relief from menopausal hot flashes, and xanax.

Grabbing the first bottle and shoving the other two back in the drawer, he palmed two tablets and dry swallowed them, thankful they didn't stick in his throat. Then he used his knife to pry the needle-like cover off the caulking tube before scraping a knife-full of the clear gel out of it. Unzipping his vest with his left hand, he grimaced as he looked down at the roughly hewn gash in his side, seeing it fully for the first time. It was still bleeding heavily and looked heinous, but he could deal with it; he'd definitely had worse.

"Barton, Jarvis told me you're about to spread _silicone caulk_ in your freaking _puncture wound_. Please, in the name of all that is sane, please tell me he's developed the ability to lie. Terminator-style technological Armageddon I can handle, but people aren't supposed to treat their bodies like a leaking faucet!" Tony abruptly snapped over the air.

Clenching his jaw tightly, Clint pressed the flat of the knife against the wound, jerking in the chair as the cold metal contacted the hot skin. He let out a low groan as he forced the waterproof sealant into and around the edges of the deep gouge, dropping the blood and silicone smeared blade onto the desk when he was done. Tearing off two of the sopping wet towels, he folded them in a square and pressed them against his side, the caulking almost gluing them to his skin, and he zipped his vest back up over the makeshift bandage, wincing as the silicone started to burn in the wound and excess water dripped down his side.

"Less like a faucet, more like a fixer upper," he corrected, taking refuge from the pain in snarky banter.

Obliging him, obviously aware of the man's tactics, Tony asked, "Located in a neighborhood with a depressed economy, but lots of potential in a few strip malls and a new sector of high income housing? Few public parks, a little bit more police presence, and you'll be bought up in no time, right?"

Chuckling, groaning from the pain as he did so, Clint responded, "Yeah, something like that."

Stretching in place slightly as he felt the percocet start to kick in, he pawed through the rest of the drawers in the desk, skipping the office supplies and finding an energy bar and a bottle of soda. Scarfing the bar and chugging the drink, ignoring the slowly numbing aches that accompanied both movements, Clint breathed deeply through his nose as he waited for his nausea to settle, cleaning his blade absently with the rest of the towels and finally sheathing it.

"You going to be able to get to the tower anytime soon, Stark?" Clint asked as he stood gingerly, adjusting his motions to compensate for the needling fog that was starting to cover his nerves.

There was enough of a hesitation before the other man's answer that Barton knew the fight above him in the rest of the city was still ongoing.

"Yeah, probably sometime this week. Think they know what we're up to now. What's your plan?"

Grinning slightly, feeling the stiffness of dried blood on his face, Clint answered, "Nothing too extraordinary. Thought I might do something normal and take the elevator."

There was an equal smile in Tony's words as he said in mock horror, "The elevator? Are you sick, Barton? Isn't there some wall that needs to be impossibly scaled or some bench that desperately needs vaulting or a tightrope that needs to be walked?"

Limping up to the bright brass elevators, Barton pressed the up button and sighed thankfully when it lit up at his touch. The doors took several seconds to open, but when they did, Clint flinched and jumped back, stumbling slightly in his haste to put as much distance between himself and the elevator.

Or, more specifically, the two armed and ready aliens inside the elevator.

The area was abruptly lilt up by a salvo of purple energy blasts, heat and plasma burning through everything they touched. Clint backpedaled quickly, his left leg collapsing under him, and unnatural heat enveloped his body.

He didn't even realize he was screaming.

* * *

Tony flinched as he heard Barton scream over the radio, the repeated weapons fire almost drowning it out for a moment before the entire line went dead. His eyes darted over his HUD as he tried to figure out what had happened.

"Barton? Barton! Jarvis, what the hell happened?" he shouted as he twisted midair, his palms spewing death and destruction as he rocketed through the city.

There was the distinctive click-pop noise as the AI attempted to diagnose the situation.

"It appears parts of the sensory network in the reception area were struck by stray fire and were damaged. I have no visual or audio connection to any of the basement levels, sir."

His mind running over every option, Tony ordered, "Run a bypass, then. Get me something from down there."

A few more clicks and several more pops sounded over the air before Jarvis updated, "I have run four hundred and seventy four bypasses and still have no audio or visual. I have regained some sensory information, however."

"Get me Agent Barton's status."

Ignoring the beeping of an exterior line trying to tap into his suit's frequency, Tony listened only for his trusty AI.

"I have no specific biological information to present, sir, but I can determine the following: there are two life signs detected in the reception area. Both are located in front of the elevators; I am detecting no life signs in Agent Barton's location." There was a moment of silence before the AI added softly, "My condolences, sir. You seemed fond of him."

Tony blasted through one more enemy and paused, hovering in midair, his eyes towards the ground, his gaze boring into the concrete at the base of his tower, the world dimming in his ears. He swallowed hard and felt a sudden, surprisingly sharp pain in his heart, his throat almost closing in. A few words here, a few shared battles there, and the man had become a friend. A friend he'd lost.

"Shall I inform Agent Romanoff, sir?" Jarvis asked quietly, and Tony cleared his throat forcefully, his thoughts bouncing around his head.

Before he could respond, another voice cut over his comm.

"Stark, you hearing me? We have a missile headed straight for the city."

Director Fury's words were like a cold shower, and they shocked him to awareness.

"How long?" he asked, forcing his voice to some semblance, and he turned, his HUD flashing with information on the incoming ordinance.

"Three minutes, at best."

Tony glanced back down at the street below him, Barton's words from earlier running through his head.

"_I fight because I can when others can't. Because there are things in this world worth fighting for. Because there are things…there are people worth dying for."_

Nodding slightly, Tony put all his power into the thrusters and blasted off towards the incoming missile, his features hard, his determination shining in his eyes. Barton had given everything he had for the team.

It was time for Tony to return the favor.

* * *

End Chapter Fourteen


	15. Chapter 15

Title: Bruises – Chapter Fifteen

Author: Lucky Gun

Summary: Because Loki's possession of one of the sharpest minds in SHIELD wasn't easy. In fact, it barely worked at all. A better take on Clint's forced defection, return to the Avengers, and the aftermath. Contains whump, language, torture, and all the horrors of a POW. AU.

A/N 1: I've had a few complaints about the grammar and spelling getting worse throughout the story. My apologies, lovely audience. Between an internet outage and our subsequent power loss due to the super storm in our area, my beta and I have been using our smartphones to keep up with the demand for this story, and it's slightly difficult. As soon as the story is done I'll go back and correct these mistakes. Apologies again.

A/N 2: **_WHOEVER IS POSTING THE ANONYMOUS REVIEWS ABOUT THE WOMAN WHO KNOWS DEATH AND LIFE_**, please understand that you are sorta kinda freaking me out here. It's a copy/paste at each chapter. Your writing is nice. You have a way with poetry. But an anonymous review on my story is not the place to showcase it. So please, either stop posting them or explain it to us or something, because I'm a hairsbreadth away from turning off the anonymous reviews option on this story, strictly because of your posts.

A/N 3: Told you I'm evil. I love the camaraderie between Tony and Clint in the comics, and in my world, they're best friends, and I'm building on that here. I'm also trying to get away from my so horribly massive AU section and back to the movieverse, so we're tapping into that again here, moving slowly back in the general direction of the awesomeness shown in theaters. And a special shout out to the following two people: SpenChester, for being an awesome-as-usual beta and for helping me through a lot of difficult parts in the last couple chapters. And here's one to Rikkamaru, for giving me some incredible ideas to employ in this story and the upcoming sequel to it. Stay awesome, kids.

* * *

"I can close it! Can anybody hear me? I can shut the portal down!"

Steve jerked in surprise when he heard the woman's voice over his comm. After he'd given Natasha a lift onto a passing speeder, he hadn't heard from her again. In fact, the system had been pretty quiet during the heaviest fighting. Glancing around, he caught Thor's eye; the Asgardian had been his companion for several minutes, ever since they heard Hulk's growled proclamation of Loki's less than graceful takedown.

Ducking his head and tapping his earpiece, Steve ordered, "Do it!"

Then Stark's voice echoed through everyone's head, his voice harder than normal as he countered, "No, wait!"

Looking up at nothing, Steve argued, "Stark, these things are still coming."

There was a shadow of despair in the genius's words as he answered, "I've got a nuke coming in, and it's going to blow in less than a minute." There was a pause punctuated by a choked swallow, and he added, "And I know just where to put it."

Steve looked at Thor and frowned slightly, his gut niggling at him, and he was about to ask when Tony came back on the line, his voice quieter than it had been, a slight loss of static indicating that the conversation was keyed to a few specific comms only.

"Rogers, you there?"

His frown growing, the solider replied, "Yeah. Stark, what's going on?"

There was a definite sigh as the man took a few precious seconds to respond.

"In case I don't make it back from this, someone needs to know. Steve…Clint's dead."

Thor and Steve froze in place, their eyes darting towards each other, the fear and question for the man on the radio obvious.

"What do you mean, he's dead? We heard from him just a half hour ago before his transmitter finally fried. How do you know he's dead?" he asked immediately, grasping at straws, grasping at hope.

Thor cocked his head slightly, his face ashen, and Tony explained softly, "He made it to the entry corridors for the ARC reactor under the tower. He did some first aid and started to take the elevator, and it was full of some of these…sons of bitches. They cut him down with gunfire. Jarvis confirmed it."

Stark was silent for a moment before he bitterly said, "If he'd done something completely asinine and stupid and so much like him, he would've been fine. If he'd climbed up the elevator shaft or shimmied up the maintenance ladders or…"

Tony trailed off, and somewhere in the distance, Hulk roared his fury. Swallowing back the foul taste that was creeping over his tongue, Steve managed to speak only one word.

"Natasha?"

The dissent was immediate.

"Not until Loki's taken out. Not until it's over."

_Not until we avenge his death, his murder, his life's tragedy._

It was unspoken, but it was there.

Hearing the tight pain in Stark's voice, Steve asked quietly, "Is this the first time you lost a soldier?"

The anger was definite and not at all subtle in Tony's words as he snapped, "We are not soldiers!"

Then the suit was roaring over the two fighters on the ground, twin contrails twisting around each other. Staring up at the Iron Man as it raced towards the portal, Steve felt a growing admiration for the billionaire.

"Stark, you know that's a one way trip."

There was no answer directly to him, but he heard the muttered order for Jarvis to save enough power for the return home. His eyes fixed on the sky as the suit disappeared into the portal, and his heart felt like it dropped into his stomach as he realized he hadn't lost one surprisingly good friend.

He'd lost two.

And dammit all to hell, he'd avenge them both.

* * *

Thor heard the leather on his hammer creak under his grip as he thought of the archer's fate. Alone, left for dead, abandoned to his own fate under a world's weight in metal and stone, he'd fought and bled and tried.

And died.

Grinding his teeth, the warrior offered a hasty but heartfelt prayer to the heavens for his friend's soul, hoping the valkyries would give the man easy passage to Valhalla. Though Barton was not of Asgard, he was a godlike warrior in his own right and something more than human in heart; he would be granted entrance, he was sure.

All he'd learned about the man told of a fierce desire to protect, to endure for the sake of others, though never for himself. Barton had been dead to his own self-worth, numb to his own self-preservation. Thor had seen that illustrated very keenly in the man's mind; the cracked marble halls and shattered doors were testament of the struggle he'd put forth to hide from Loki his innermost thoughts of those he cared about, not himself.

Even aboard the helicarrier, knife at the ready, quicksilver movements drawing blood from his partner, Barton had fought to the last and sacrificed himself to save her, destroying himself to give her that single opening, trusting her to take it instinctively. And when that hadn't been enough, he'd twisted the blade in his chest to accelerate his own death, desperate to save all of them from a weakness only he perceived, a weakness Loki alone was responsible for creating, a weakness that never truly existed. The man's greatest strength was what both the archer and the crazed demigod saw as his greatest weakness.

Barton had heart.

Raising narrowed eyes to the horizon, he prepared to continue his slaughter of the army his brother commanded, determined to avenge his friend's fall. He had already promised himself that Loki would pay for the man's shaded happiness, and now he would pay more dearly, blood for blood.

So he held his hammer aloft, gave a battle cry, and charged.

* * *

Even as Hulk roared his pain to the sky, Bruce mourned silently. He hadn't believe it either; the man was like a cockroach: able to get in and out of tight spaces, skittish, and impossible to kill on the first, second, fifth, twelfth, or sixty second try. Even though he barely knew Barton, even though he'd had no real meaningful interaction with him, he'd fought beside him.

And battle is a better judge of a man's character than any amount of peace in the world.

Which is how he came to find an ache in his chest and a numbing in his mind. He'd seen a kindred soul in the archer, a common ground, a shared balance between life and the guilt of living. He had seen his own apparent inability to die in the man's stubbornness against expiring. He had seen his own tenacity in every movement Clint had made since he'd known him.

Against an alien weapon, though, it hadn't been enough.

Murderous thoughts filled him, the rage consuming him not entirely the other guy's, and he briefly wished he'd done more to the demigod when he'd attacked him in the penthouse. But he could fix that. He could avenge him. He could make Loki regret having ever stepped foot on the Earth.

Bruce could feel Hulk's questioning emotions flow over him, and he could practically hear the deep, rumbling voice.

"_I will kill him. Are you in?"_

Glancing up at the tower, Bruce thought once more of the fallen Hawk and grinned mentally, his thoughts wicked, his only intent to make the demigod pay for the blood he'd spilt.

Oh, yes. The doctor was in.

* * *

"Close it."

The words were harder to say than he'd ever admit; no matter how much he and Stark had fought, Steve didn't want him dead, floating in space, or even jailed. Sure, he'd like to see the smirk wiped off his face eventually, but he wanted to be the one to do it, preferably on the sparring mat.

But he heard Natasha's grunt of effort over the comm, and his heart lurched in his chest as he again thought of his duty as the team's unofficial leader. Swallowing back the thoughts, he instead kept his eyes skyward, waiting for the gash to close; dead or otherwise, there were still aliens out there, and he wouldn't rest easy until he was sure the threat was gone.

Gaze on the sky, it was impossible to miss the red, gold, and silver suit that started falling from the heavens almost as soon as the portal closed. A lightness shone through some of the clouds over his mind as he watched the armor fall through the heavens.

"Son of a gun," he murmured softly, and he heard Natasha's half-laugh as she stared up at the man who had been her fake boss for a week or so.

Then the relief gave way to panic as Steve realized the truth at the same time as Thor.

"He's not slowing down," the Asgardian exclaimed, spinning his hammer as he prepared to rescue the man.

A giant green roadblock beat him to it, though, and Steve and Thor raced to where the pair had landed, weaving in between parked cars, cracked concrete, and dead aliens. Absently, Steve wondered why the aliens had died when their ship had blown, but decided the question could be left for the two scientists laying in front of him.

Hulk hovered to the side as Thor ripped the facemask off the armor, his fingers denting the metal and making child's play of the connectors, and Stark's face was unmoving as he laid there. Steve's initial joy at the man's return faded as he first checked his breathing, and, finding none, checked the ARC reactor in his chest.

It wasn't even glowing.

Sitting back on his heels, Steve tried to swallow the fear and anger that was crawling up the back of his throat, but before he could even start, Hulk roared an inhuman roar, and Bruce's voice faintly echoed in the primal sound. It ricocheted off the concrete and in their ears, jolting Tony better than an electric shock, and he jerked upright, eyes wide open.

"What the hell!" he blurted, and Steve and Thor exchanged a quick grin as Hulk growled his victory to the world and pounded his chest. "What just happened? Please tell me nobody kissed me," Tony added, groaning as he leaned back against the support his suit provided him.

Steve exhaled slightly shakily and stared around the destruction surrounding them, the environment surreal.

"We won."

Those words froze the team in place, and they all exchanged heavy glances. Tony had been about to make an offhand comment about taking a vacation, a food he'd never tried, and he'd even prepared a snarky response for the inevitable argument against dining in a half-destroyed eatery, but his abrupt return to the land of the living had only momentarily broken his last breathing train of thought.

Yes, they had won. Countless civilians were injured or killed, any number of military had been slaughtered, and whole sections of the city were demolished, ablaze, or underneath a stinking, festering leviathan carcass.

And Clint was dead.

And it was time to tell Natasha.

* * *

She was waiting for them right outside the penthouse doors, looking only slightly worse for the wear. A trickle of blood had dried near her hairline and she'd gotten a few bruises and a busted lip somewhere along the line, but other than the soreness she was bound to be feeling, she seemed healthy as the rest of them.

Tony had removed the rest of his helmet, not even finding it in himself to gripe about the needless destruction. Why would that matter to him now? What was a single piece of metal when he was about to destroy a person's soul? And he knew without a doubt it would destroy her. He imagined hearing that Pepper had been killed, and it was all he could do to not leap off the closest balcony. How would she survive? Would she even want to?

Steve exchanged an uneasy glance with Hulk as they approached, Tony leading the way, for once. Steve had initially been concerned with the arrangement, but Tony had insisted, his eyes flashing with something the super soldier would never be able to name, would never want to name. He clenched his fists tight, his fingernails cutting into his gloves, and he hoped he wasn't as pale as he felt.

Hulk caught the look Rogers was giving him and Bruce shivered internally. The big guy's anger peaked with the other man's stuttering faith in one of the pack, but the doctor understood. Tony wasn't the most tactful person he knew, but he was sincere in his words when he chose the right ones to say. But how could there be any right words in this situation?

Thor tried not to duck his head or shy away. He'd lost warriors before, but he'd never had the thankless duty of informing the family. Even his father rarely performed that service, barring it was a high level general or some such other titled officer. So he had no idea what to expect, but he thought he might be expecting tears. Or screaming. Or fear. Or silence. Or more death.

Natasha's eyes darted between the four of them, her gaze assessing, and the men realized that she didn't have a clue. It never occurred to her that her partner would fall during the fight. Had any of them? The man was slippery as an eel, quick as a mongoose, witted like a fox, and graceful like the bird of prey his codename referenced. How could someone so human, so superhuman, so broken and so strong, die in such a way?

"Is Loki still in there?" she suddenly asked, eyes darted towards the doors, and Tony shrugged slightly, almost stumbling over his answer. "Most of Jarvis's sensors are down anywhere above the fiftieth floor. Your guess is as good as mine."

Nodding, Natasha pulled one of her knives and held it in the hand that wasn't gripping the stolen scepter tightly. She turned and took one step towards the door before she jerked to a stop, her face flooding with realization. Turning back to them, slowly, she met Tony's eyes unflinching, the deep green of her gaze steeled and solid but backlit with fear.

"Stark…where's Barton?" she breathed, her voice barely carrying the eight feet between them.

Somehow, maybe through years of emotional detachment from the world brought about by his own father, Tony managed to keep his eyes from automatically averting. Instead, he took two steps towards her and didn't try to insult her intelligence. The last act of reverence he could pay to a dead man was to give his as-good-as widow the same respect he had deserved in life.

"He's not coming. He didn't make it, Natasha," he said softly.

Like a switch had been flipped, her eyes flared, heat and ice warring for dominance in her gaze. She looked from Tony to Steve, then to Hulk, then to Thor, then back to Tony, her features paling steadily until she had the skin tone of a corpse. The ice won, and the dull look she gave them made Steve finally drop his focus.

He remembered when his father had passed away, his mother had that same look in her eyes. For two years she held on, living when half her soul was gone, gradually pulling away from the world. When she died, she hadn't even been a ghost of the woman he'd known. Raising his eyes again, he thought that when Natasha finally died of whatever causes, they would have to match the date of death with Clint's.

Because he was looking at a dead woman.

Hulk gave a low whine that turned into a deep, heavy growl, like cicadas drunk on summer heat. The Russian spy didn't pay him any attention, but instead turned and looked back at the door, her only thought obvious as her grip tightened on the knife in her hand, her head ducking slightly. There was no shake to her shoulders, no sob echoing from her throat, but the emotion that rolled off her in waves made even Tony flinch.

"How?" she pressed quietly, her tone betraying nothing.

He took a single step forward, the tendons in his neck tightening to painful levels as he forced himself to answer her.

"He made it to the entrance level of the reactor and bandaged himself up a bit, got some water, snarked at me a few times, raided my receptionist's desk. He, uh…he'd hurt his leg pretty good and he decided to take the elevator." Tony paused, shaking his head forcefully when he heard Barton's cries in his head again.

"He wasn't the only one averse to taking the stairs. There were two ground troops in there, waiting for him, I think. The way they fired…I don't think he felt anything."

His lie echoed in his own head, his mental anguish mixing with the archer's dying screams, and he forced his face to remain impassive. But Natasha must've caught some tell, because she gave him a hard look, her eyes still dull, the intensity imagined only.

Tony obeyed his instincts, though, and gave himself a two count before he amended, "I don't think he regretted it. He didn't want me to tell you when Jarvis caught up with him down there. He was worried you wouldn't be able to focus, that you'd get yourself killed." He saw a glint of something new enter her gaze, something other than death, and he finished, "The only thing he thought about was protecting you, protecting all of us. That's all he cared about."

It took a moment, but he was finally able to put a name to the emotion on her face: devotion. It was pure, untainted devotion. The sheer enormity of the situation hit Tony, Steve, Thor, and Bruce at the same time. The woman they were looking at wasn't just Barton's partner. This wasn't simply some agent he worked with.

This wasn't even Natasha Romanoff.

This was Natalia Romanova, the Russian-born spy who'd been spared an arrow through the throat by a man who could see everything, everything she was, everything she'd done, everything she could be. This was Barton's right hand, his preferred sword, his favorite shield. This was the woman who completed Clint in a way no lover could dream. She was more than his partner, more than his friend.

She was his life. She was _more_ than his life. And in the same way, he was more than hers. They were each other, through and through, two sides of the same coin, cut from the same bolt of cloth, soul mates in the clearest, most universal way. In the eastern world, they may have been called Yin and Yang.

In the western world, they were called Agents Romanoff and Barton.

And now he was gone, she was what remained, and everything that was left of Clint existed within her.

They saw his soul shine through her eyes as she restored her knife to its hidden sheath, her stance relaxing slightly. Tony frowned, his question not even making it past his lips before she turned back to them with an infinitely sad, horribly understanding look on her face.

"He didn't believe in vengeance; he believed in justice," she said quietly, and Steve swallowed his shame silently while Hulk looked away, shifting slightly in the same way Thor did.

Tony dropped his eyes, his suit abruptly constricting, and he said nothing to defend himself against the accusation. Weren't they all out for blood? Didn't they all think her call would be strongest? But even in death, even in the cold hands of a reaper, Barton could still teach them something. So the men shared a look, their convictions immediately identical, and they soundlessly followed her as she walked steadily towards the door and pushed it open with a flourish. They walked around the crag that had been carved into the ground, sidestepping the sectional couch that had flipped into the wall. They came to the top of the half set of stairs and took in the scene.

Loki was slumped against the far side of the room, half propped up on the concrete, his face bloody, his movements stiff as he whispered words to the air. They couldn't even give the demigod a second look, though. Because Loki was there.

And, kneeling in front of him, somehow subservient even with a loaded weapon in his hands, there was Clint.

* * *

End Chapter Fifteen


	16. Chapter 16

Title: Bruises – Chapter Sixteen

Author: Lucky Gun

Summary: Because Loki's possession of one of the sharpest minds in SHIELD wasn't easy. In fact, it barely worked at all. A better take on Clint's forced defection, return to the Avengers, and the aftermath. Contains whump, language, torture, and all the horrors of a POW. AU.

A/N: Come on, boys and girls. You couldn't possibly think I would actually kill him, right? But I needed to show what the team would do, what they would think, how Natasha would react to that news. Plus, he is kind of a cockroach. A fairly handsome, ridiculously amenable cockroach, but a cockroach nonetheless. So I couldn't kill him. But is anyone keeping track? How many times have I put this boy through the ringer? I honestly have lost track, but I'm sure it has to be a record. Hmm…I'll put together a count for the next chapter's author's notes.

* * *

Clint dropped hard, his leg giving way under his weight, and he fell beside the receptionist's desk at the far end. He screamed as heat radiated up his thigh, mixing with the fire that flared from his chest and back as he slammed into the corner created by the edge of the wraparound desk meeting the wall next to the second elevator doors.

The pain helped him focus, though, and he turned and smashed his palm against the bottom button of the operator panel above him. He found a bit of luck on his side as the doors opened almost instantly, and he wrapped his fingers around the edge of the door and pulled himself in. Clint pressed his back against the side of the car directly under the floor buttons and mindlessly slapped the closest one he could reach. The doors slid shut just as another salvo of fire burned through the air, pocking the rear wall of the car.

Before he could breathe a sigh of relief, he felt the car drop about fifteen feet before grinding to a halt. Groaning, he glanced around the corner out the open doors and stared at the maintenance area he'd gotten to. His eyes jumped to the ceiling as he heard banging in the elevator shaft above him. He pulled himself to standing using the rail that wrapped around the wood and velvet-lined car. Adrenaline surged through him and mixed with the painkillers in his system, dulling the steep ache from the blast at his collarbone. He glanced down and swallowed hard as the smell of burning flesh assaulted his nose, but he couldn't keep the grim smirk off his face. Most of the plasma had hit the triple layer protection of his Kevlar, and the buckle on his quiver had taken a bit of the heat, too. He'd gotten lucky.

The banging echoed through the area again, and a quick look at the control panel for the elevator limited his options; every button above the tenth floor was blinking bright red. Crossing that idea off his list, Barton looked back up at the roof of the car, eyes tracing the access panel in the ceiling. Scraping the bottom of the barrel of his reserves, he pulled his bow off his back and lifted it towards the ceiling, using the tip of it to undo the small latch that kept the hatch closed. Securing his bow onto his back again, he gripped the edge of the open door and levered his right foot onto the railing. His fingers tightened around the raised interior edging of the door and he stretched out his arm, popping the lid open.

Forcing himself to ignore the screeching pain that even the percocet couldn't cover, Clint somehow pulled himself through the two square foot hatch, almost biting through his lip as he finally collapsed onto the dusty roof of the elevator car. He breathed shallowly as he curled around his busted ribs, but a lack of heat and moisture on his forearm proved that his impromptu bandage on his side was at least somewhat effective.

Groaning lowly as the pounding at the elevator doors rattled in his head painfully, he pushed himself to his hands and knees and muttered, "I'm coming, I'm coming. Hold your horses."

Glancing around the dark shaft lit only by emergency fixtures every other floor, he snaked a hand under the back of his vest, the small pocket in the bottom of it a surprisingly functional one of his own design. He pulled a locking carabiner with a locking pressure cuff on the side. Heaving himself to standing using the heavy cables, Clint stared at the wires, determining their function, and he shuffled to the edge of the car and looked down at the mechanics framework that ran along the side of the main shaft. His head jerked up as he heard the banging give way to the sound of metal scraping along metal, his concussion dizzying him. Moving as quickly as his abused body would let him, he snagged two nickel-sized charges from a hidden compartment in the bottom of his quiver. Ducking as he moved back to the center of the car, he wedged one of the explosives between the connecting pins on the main line and he pulled himself up a bit and pressed the second charge to the main wire as far up as he could reach, the tacky underside of the disc sticking tenaciously.

He didn't waste time glancing up as he heard the doors on the floor above him start to give under the barrage and focused instead of forcing the rest of the safety pins out of their holds. Finished with that, the elevator creaking in place under the single cable's strain, he clipped the metal carabiner to the harness integrated in his vest and locked the pressure cuff around the main wire. Clint shook his head to clear it of the incessant buzzing and rolled his shoulders slightly to get rid of the tension that was starting to lock up his muscles. Then he pulled two small throwing daggers from some of the hidden sheaths in his vest and slipped the blades between the pointer and middle fingers of his left hand. Breathing deeply, he stared up at the ever-widening beam of light that was spilling from the next level's doors. He waited a few more seconds, waited until something more than the very tips of the guns were visible, and he exhaled slowly, bracing himself.

Then he wrapped his right hand tight around the cable, took a long, deep breath, and gave a sharp, low series of whistles. Instantly, the first miniature charge blew, popping the final pin out of place, and the counterbalance somewhere at the top of the elevator shaft started dropping rapidly, pulling Clint straight up the dark tunnel. His eyes tracked the doors the aliens were still working on opening as he sped towards them. It was open maybe four inches, only parts of the soldiers visible, and the speed of the ascent made his vision blur.

But he was Hawkeye, and he snapped his left wrist out as he passed the door, the knives spinning through the air, his aim perfect as usual, his calculations precise as always. He didn't need to see the blades embed themselves in the skulls of the aliens to know they had hit, but the barely audible thunks and the following heavy thuds were still satisfying. That threat dealt with, he raised his gaze to what would be the sky if he'd been outside, lights flashing in his vision every twenty five feet or so. The cable spun him a little as he rocketed upwards, his nausea almost getting the best of him. He clenched his eyes tightly shut and rated his speed as he flew through the shaft, the rapid change in altitude making his ears pop.

Maybe fifteen seconds passed before he wrenched his eyes open and gave a rapid, clicking whistle as he swung his legs and generated sideways momentum. The charge above him blew, cutting the wire, and there was a split second of weightlessness as gravity tried to catch hold of him again. Not giving it a chance, Barton grabbed the closest rung of the maintenance ladder he'd angled himself towards. He caught it with his fingertips and slipped, dropping two rungs, his hand smashing against the metal as he fell. Crying out as he felt his blunt fingernails tear a bit, he finally managed to grab the third rung. He forced his fingers to maintain their grip as he hauled himself up, muscles burning from not only his weight but the hundred or so extra pounds the cable added, and his scrambling feet found the ladder. Panting heavily, vehemently ignoring his body's demands to simply shut down, he painfully unhooked his carabiner and allowed the eight of so feet of heavy wire to fall down the dark shaft. Wrapping his arms around the ladder and pressing his burning forehead against the deliciously cold metal, he stood there quietly for a moment, relishing the single moment of rest.

Then he forced his eyes open and looked through the gloom, finding the spray painted floor numbers of his location. It seemed his frivolous luck was tilting in his favor for the moment: he was at the floor above the main level of Stark's lounging areas. Craning his neck, he saw the honeycombed grate covering the air vent for the floor directly beside him and popped it open, letting it fall on its hinges. It banged loudly, and he winced, tilting his head as his concussion flickered through his head, reminding him of its existence once again. Blinking hard, he squeezed the bridge of his nose in a vain effort to push away the pain. After several seconds, he finally dropped his hand and squeezed his fist tightly, the crippling agony in his mind staggering him.

Breathing shallowly through his nose, Clint hooked his right arm through a rung, clenched his free hand again and abruptly slammed it into his thigh, right where he knew the fracture to be. A fresh wave of hot agony tore straight through him and he ducked his head, a gasp breaking out of his throat, his body sagging against the box ladder as he choked back a sob. Then he chuckled slightly, his teeth bloody as he grinned even thought a stray tear fought its way down his face, lightening some of the gore smeared on his face to a dark pink. He knew from ten too many run ins with the medical staff that the mind had a gateway mechanism; it registers the worst pain and ignores the rest. So he smiled like a maniac when his world suddenly consisted of only the throbbing heat in his leg.

Forcing himself to take advantage of the rush of endorphins and the temporary ability to ignore the rest of his body's aches and pains, he shifted sideways on the ladder and leaned into the air vent, pulling himself forward with his arms until he was entirely inside. He shimmied slowly through the vent, the silver metal popping with his weight as he moved. Clint forced himself forward in a modified army crawl, dragging his left leg while he pushed himself forward with his right and hauled himself along with his forearms. He stopped at the first grate he came across, staring down into the room below, his eyes and ears tracking everything. But the adrenaline was fading, his senses dulling underneath the effects of the percocet, and he quietly regretted his decision to take two pills.

Praying silently and forcing open the grate, Barton looked down at the stone floors and palmed one of his knives, hoping that the room was empty. He could maybe get to some stairs and make his way to the top of the tower and maybe dismantle the portal in someway, or at least get a good view of things. Swallowing, he held the blade loosely in his right hand and grabbed the edge of the vent with both hands, pressing the handle against his fingers. He tumbled out and flipped, his forearms towards him, his palms flat against the ceiling. He hung there for only a second before his weight grew too much for his overly strained muscles to take, and he dropped to the floor, his legs folding under him as he hit the distant stone. He tumbled sideways, sliding a little across the polished floor, and he groaned deeply, his right hand gripping the knife's hilt tightly in an attempt to channel some of the pain.

Laying there, panting, senses overloaded, muscles trembling, pulse pounding in his ears, he almost missed the words from across the room.

"You don't look so good."

There was a horribly painful moment as Barton attempted to separate memory from reality, his eyes snapping open as his instincts flared. He rolled over and forced himself to a half-sitting position, propping himself up with his left hand while his right brandished the knife. Any other time, the movement would probably have been at least slightly threatening. As it was, the screeching pain from his collarbone made his left elbow give out and he toppled backwards, groaning as his back slammed against the unforgiving floor. Forcing himself back up and managing to stay there this time, Clint blinked through the blood that was still dripping into his eyes lackadaisically. His arm trembled slightly as he held his blade in front of him, it seeming more like a shield than a weapon.

Staring across the room, ignoring the breeze that was coming through the shattered windows and the craters on the floor that were more than vaguely reminiscent of the human body, Clint saw Loki laying sideways across some stairs, evidently in the process of trying to get back to his feet. The sniper glanced around, wishing one of his teammates were there, but swallowed back his own uneasiness when he found he was terrifyingly alone with the demigod.

But a longer look had his anxiety dimming, if only slightly. Loki was moving slowly, his face was bloodied, and his robes were torn. Putting two and two together, Clint glanced back at the holes in the floor and raised an eyebrow. In response, Loki averted his eyes and said nothing. The energy that swelled through Clint was revitalizing, and he capitalized on it as he rolled over and forced himself to his feet. He staggered a bit as he came vertical and kept his left knee locked, trying to minimize the movement and, therefore, the pain. He kept facing Loki the whole time, though, and he limped slowly over to a bench that was carved out of the same piece of granite that formed part of the wall. It was shallow, more for decoration or as a display shelf than a seat, but he wasn't going to be picky.

Barton pulled his bow and managed to grab one of his arrows as he sat down, and he set the metal frame on his lap, the arrow resting on top of the bow, his fingers in position to pull back and release the arrow in the very specific direction of his enemy at a moment's notice.

It was a good bluff, anyway.

The burn at his collarbone was steadily robbing him of his strength while the constant agony in his femur was sapping him of his energy. The incessant migraine that raged in his mind was taking everything else he had left. The only comfort he had was that Loki seemed as battered as he was and didn't seem keen to fight. Instead, he looked beaten, and he looked like he was well aware of that fact. Cocking his head, Clint tried to figure out why. Then he abruptly realized that he couldn't hear the steady hum of the portal or the buzzing of speeders as they flew by the tower. Stretching a little as he stared out the gaping hole in the side of the tower, Barton saw the multiple downed bodies of leviathans and small fires from crashed hovercraft, but he didn't see anything of inhuman origin moving anywhere.

As he allowed himself the rare luxury of a smile, Loki shifted in place and Clint retrained his focus on him, tightening his grip on his weapons in what he hoped was an intimidating fashion; he didn't think he even had the strength to pull the trigger of a NERF gun at the moment.

"I don't understand it," Loki said quietly, his eyes trained on nothing, apparently content to stay sprawled over the stairs for the moment. He noticed the agent's abrupt redirection and he added, "I don't understand why I lost. How I lost. There's no real reason for it."

Clint frowned sharply and his fingers flexed on his bow; maybe he could shift to the left, take some weight off his leg, and compensate for the force required by changing his grip slightly…he might be able to pull the string then.

"This was the perfect battle. It was a disciplined, advanced army against an unsuspecting and practically unarmed society. This should've been an easy bet to win."

Tilting his head to the side, Barton felt the blood roll along his eyebrow and drip down his cheekbone instead of into his eyes. Problem two eliminated.

"The rest of your petty teammates should've fallen like wheat before the blade. It was an army of thousands against six simple soldiers with nothing more but a disgustingly overwhelming desire to do…_good_."

Trying to use Stark's equipment to contact the helicarrier for a level five extraction seemed a bit superfluous; his codes were probably outdated since his forced defection, and he couldn't see any reason anyone but Fury, Coulson, and Deluca would listen to a word he had to say, so he threw that idea out.

"But against all odds, against the best I could throw at you, at them, at this insignificant speck of a world, you all managed to best me."

An earlier check of his comm unit proved it was useless to even think about attempting to use it; the wires were so degraded and the circuitry was so smashed he didn't think it was even worth salvaging for parts.

Then Loki focused his blue eyes on Clint, their intensity fierce, and the agent fought back a wave of anger, fear, and memory as those orbs bored into his face. He unconsciously sat up a little straighter, fighting back a grimace, and his arms tightened, pulling his bow closer to him. He managed to push himself to his feet, his world narrowing to the pain lashing at the his inner defenses and the twenty feet between him and the demigod. He staggered forward several paces, unable to hide the wince that crossed his face every single time he moved, and Loki straightened a bit himself, his mouth spewing venom at the approaching archer.

"You think you've won? You think you've secured your beloved home against the strength the universe holds? You think you're prepared for any of it? Even with my brother's help, you'll still fall. All of you will eventually fall," he growled, and Barton gave him a hard glare even as his stride faltered.

Crashing to his knees with a deep grunt, Clint ducked his head, his breathing harsh, his ears burning with the truth he could hear in Loki's words. The man wasn't able to refute any of it; it was a fluke that they had won. He still didn't know how they'd done it, only that he hadn't been involved in any way. The team had done it without him, somehow stopping the massive army, taking down Loki. He idly wondered if the team had even missed his presence on the battlefield, his self-hatred forcefully making itself known. He thought he knew where he stood with Natasha before this whole thing. He thought he had proven himself again and again to the team during the battle. But they'd left him for dead in the tunnel, left him with nothing more than a hope and a prayer. Part of him knew that maybe the area hadn't been too stable, that maybe they would've tried if they could.

But another part of him, a part that was still defined by cracked red marble and shattered oak timbers, thought that maybe he was just fooling himself.

Looking up from where he'd fallen, he found himself within arm's length of the demigod, the other man's features focused and calm. Clint dropped his gaze as the truth of Loki's words soaked into him. The world _was_ doomed, after all. It was only a matter of time before something else threatened the world, before the team was overwhelmed by alien forces beyond their ability and strength. And maybe Loki would lead them; the man had proven too slippery to trust so far, having already come back from apparent death.

Blinking, Clint grasped mentally at the fact that his life within SHIELD was over; no one would trust him again after what he'd done. And he had a magic taint on him; he couldn't even imagine what a security risk he'd be labeled by the Council. Would he even be free to continue life as a civilian? He would probably be locked in some detention center for the rest of his life, studied for any residual effects the Tesseract would leave. He was nothing more than a science experiment and a dishonorable soldier. What life did he have to turn to after this? Natasha didn't trust him anymore, and the rest of the team didn't seem to care, either.

But Loki couldn't get away with what he'd done. He didn't believe in vengeance, but the justice the demigod deserved, Barton wasn't sure he wouldn't find a way to weasel out of. The man had untold allies in the universe, and who knows who would die in the man's quest for escape. But Clint could fix that. He had nothing more to live for after this, and it seemed as worthy a goal as any.

His fingers twitched on his bow, and Loki glanced at the agent's hands before raising knowing eyes to the assassin as he asked mockingly, "Are you going to kill me, Agent Barton?"

Unable to form a verbal response, Clint drew strength from somewhere unnatural as he slid into a familiar form while still on his knees, his arms operating on their own accord as he pulled the string on his bow and leveled the arrowhead at Loki's left eye socket. The burning in his muscles was as dim as the rest of the world, and he didn't hear the voices just outside the door.

Just like he didn't hear the hypnotic magic weaving in and out of the disgraced Asgardian's words.

He couldn't realize what Loki was doing; he couldn't think about the fate the man was trying to avoid, what the Other had threatened him with, what Odin would do to him. He couldn't realize that Loki's hatred towards him went so deep that the man was willing to destroy both their lives with one swift move. He couldn't realize that everything he had thought was so twisted, fears and beliefs eating their own tails as fast as they spawned, that only the strongest illusionary magic could be responsible for them.

All he knew was that he just had to let go of the bowstring and everything would be over.

Just let go.

Let it go.

Let go.

Do it.

Do it.

Do it.

_Do it!_

* * *

Whatever the team was expecting to walk into, this sure as hell wasn't it. After all, they weren't supposed to see their supposedly deceased teammate on his knees, bow drawn, with a confused mental struggle obvious on his face. His arm was twitching, like it was desperately attempting to loose the projectile, but his bruised fingers were white with the effort of locking them in place. Loki didn't seem to notice their arrival and instead he was giving the whole of his attention to the archer, harsh words echoing from his mouth, the air he exhaled tinted with blue energy.

"Do it, Barton! You coward, _do it_!"

Simultaneously, everyone on the team realized something about the situation.

Natasha (still reeling from the fact that he was actually _alive_)saw the emotion on her partner's face and knew, without a doubt, that something was seriously wrong, because no way did Barton ever show that much emotion in the presence of an enemy, no matter how worn down he was.

Steve saw the bad guy of the day monologuing, something that, in his experience, bad guys only did if they were fairly certain of their victory and had eight different backup plans in place to ensure their win.

Tony saw the cobalt taint in the air that flowed between the alien magician and the ex-carnie and knew that anytime there was that much power being expended, something horrible was about to happen (though it was usually to him).

Hulk smelled all the wrong emotions in the air – success from Loki, failure from Clint – and Bruce saw a man, who by all rights should be hospitalized in a medically-induced coma, instead pulling a two hundred and fifty pound force bowstring like he was healthy as a horse.

And Thor saw the irresistible magic suggestion his brother was lacing through his words as Loki tried to force Barton into murdering him in cold blood.

"Stop them!" he shouted as he leapt forward, and the rest of the team didn't even flinch at his volume.

Hulk tackled Loki in a way that would make Lawrence Taylor proud, and Steve was right behind him, snagging a discarded throw pillow from the floor. The massive green creature crushed the demigod to the ground with one giant hand (the super soldier couldn't be sure, but he swore the thing said something along the lines of, "Puny god," as he did so) and Steve pressed the pillow against the lower half of the Asgardian's face, kneeling hard on it, silencing the lies that he was spouting.

Tony snapped a quick order to Jarvis and the AI complied immediately. Twin machine guns (that he _never_ planned to tell Pepper he'd had installed) dropped from the ceiling, both of them training on the fallen demigod, and he knew the rest of his order was being carried out silently. In the meantime, he raised both palms in Loki's direction, praying for an excuse.

Thor and Natasha moved towards Barton as one, the Asgardian knocking his weapon away without much effort while Natasha took his face in her hands, her words quick and in something other than English. Frozen in place up until that moment, Clint finally raised sluggish, pained eyes to them, his gaze flashing an electric blue. Swallowing hard, Natasha glanced at Thor, but the stricken look on his face told her that it hadn't been a figment of her imagination, that he had seen it too.

Judging by the anger on his face, Thor wasn't necessarily against beating the infraction out of his brother's hide.

"Clint? Look at me, Hawkeye. Everything's fine, all right? We got him, everything's done. You did fine, okay?" she said, switching to something Thor could understand.

The blue flashed again before it faded to nothingness, and as his eyes cleared, the glossy pain came to the forefront with no quarter. Clint exhaled sharply, his lips trembling, and the tremors grew to cover his entire body. He raised his hands and gripped her wrists tightly as she kept hold of his face, the obvious unsteadiness in her usually unflappable partner shaking her. His gaze darted between the individual members of the team, all of whom were focused on him, the demigod an afterthought temporarily.

His eyes dropped to Loki for a moment, his expression shuttering, and he gave a ghost of a grin as he murmured, "You lose, Loki."

Then his eyes slid shut, his muscles went lax, and he fell forward into Natasha's arms without a sound.

* * *

End Chapter Sixteen


	17. Chapter 17

Title: Bruises – Chapter Seventeen

Author: Lucky Gun

Summary: Because Loki's possession of one of the sharpest minds in SHIELD wasn't easy. In fact, it barely worked at all. A better take on Clint's forced defection, return to the Avengers, and the aftermath. Contains whump, language, torture, and all the horrors of a POW. AU.

A/N: Fair warning: this chapter is going to be dialogue-heavy, funny, snarky, and filled with just a little bit of blood. The story needs a little bit of levity at this point, so I had to put it in. Also, I lost track of the whumpage three different times because I couldn't decide what level of whump to count. Suffice to say, he's amazingly crunched.

* * *

Natasha yelped slightly as Clint fell into her, her heart rate rocketing. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and let his momentum carry them backwards and to the side, cushioning his landing against the stone floor. She rolled him carefully onto his back and her breath caught in her throat as she realized exactly how many hurts covered him. Swallowing back her fear and anger, she gestured silently, without looking, and felt relief flood her when a flat but soft pillow pressed against her hand. She leveled Barton's head up slightly and slid the pillow under him, her fingers skimming the edges of the half inch wide, five inch long gash that started near the middle of his forehead and wrapped around the left side of his skull.

Raising her eyes to the rest of the team, she refused to let her panic show as she felt his rapid pulse in his carotid and said, "We need a medical extraction. Can you get a hold of the helicarrier, Stark?"

Already disengaging his suit, Tony nodded to her as the red metal gave way to his Black Sabbath t-shirt and jeans. He walked over to an undamaged glass computer panel and snapped his fingers and clapped his palms together as Jarvis started pulling up information.

"Yeah, no worries. Any way we can get Dr. Banner to come out and play, Green Giant?" he asked over his shoulder towards Hulk, but the snarling answer told him all he needed to know; with a viable enemy so close, there was no way the animal would recede to the back of Bruce's mind.

Thor stood and left the unconscious Barton in Natasha's care for a moment as he walked towards his brother, features mostly controlled as he glanced at Steve and asked, "Is there nothing more effective than holding him as a roped and sacrificial hog?"

Barely looking up from his screen as it projected information through the air, Tony dropped one hand to a hidden drawer, snagged a roll of bright red duct tape, and tossed it mindlessly in the demigod's direction. He caught it, but at Thor's confused look, Steve took it from him and hauled Loki roughly to a sitting position, Hulk keeping his beefy hand clenched around his chest.

As Steve started a strip of tape, Loki raised a finger and said, "If it's all the same to you, I'll take that drink now."

Rolling his eyes, Steve just proceeded to unravel approximately twenty feet of tape around the lower half of the man's face. He leaned back, paused, then shrugged and wrapped another eight feet of tape around the demigod's eyes, blinding him. He then used the rest of the roll wrapping the demigod's wrists and ankles together, only satisfied when he came to the thin cardboard center. He tossed it back to Tony, who caught it absently before blinking and staring at the empty roll in his hands.

Casting an annoyed look at the super soldier, he said, "This was a gift from Queen Elizabeth after I stopped London Bridge from falling down; it was custom matched to my armor."

Shrugging, Steve pointed to the bound, gagged, blinded demigod, and Tony paused, then nodded, "And it was well used."

An abrupt squawking over their ear pieces drew the attention, though Natasha's eyes didn't leave Clint's pale face as Tony gave a victory shout and pumped his fist into the air.

"All right, ladies and gentlemen, we are up and running. If there's any giant invisible ship headed towards what's left of Manhattan, can you get that tech who's probably still playing Galaga to actually stop for a split second and answer?" he asked into his mic, and there were several seconds of silence before a very annoyed, very loud voice came over the intercom.

"Dammit, Stark! Stop hacking everything that runs off electricity! You're making my security measures look incompetent," Fury snapped, and Tony grinned as he said, "Well, you know, they kind of are. Did you know I actually have a few companies that could take care of that for you? I mean, _I_ would still be able to hack them, but Bill Gates might have a little bit of difficulty."

Glaring at Tony's back, Natasha cut in, "This is Romanoff, Director. Mission complete. We need a medical evac, ASAP. Barton's in a pretty bad way."

Fury was quiet for a moment before he asked, "And Loki?"

Casting her eyes towards the disgraced demigod and slightly annoyed by his change of topic, she answered, "Alive, and detained, as best we could manage. Sedatives and a straight jacket would be appropriate, I think."

Before Fury could answer, there was a grunt, a scuffle, a muffled curse, and then a very different voice came over the line.

"Consider it done. What's the medical status of the team?"

Thor cocked his head slightly as Tony hesitated before he asked, "Did someone…just…punch Director Fury?"

Coulson was suddenly there, his voice simultaneously awed and pissed as he said, "Yes, someone did. In the head. With her fist."

They could almost hear the answering shrug as Dr. Ann Deluca said, "I hit him on the left side; he didn't even see it coming. Not my fault the moron wouldn't tell me what the damned medical evac was for."

Tony blinked twice, then said, "Ah. Very good. Carry on."

"Don't mind if I do."

There was no hiding Natasha's slightly horrified but very appreciative grin which fell as soon as she looked back down at her partner, swallowing tightly. There was blood pooling under him slowly, his breaths were stuttering in his chest, and his eyes were rolling restlessly under his eyelids as though he was dreaming.

"Hey, Romanoff? Listen, we're loading up a quinjet to get this evac taken care of, because, alien invasion or not, we can't have a flying aircraft carrier suddenly phase into existence above New York City. But, unless you get hold of your tongue and tell me what the hell we're flying out there to fix, we won't know what to pack. And then I'll be slightly annoyed and I'll fail you on your next physical and get you knocked down to KP duty for six months. Speak, girl, speak!" Deluca snapped over the air, and Natasha blinked quickly before nodding.

"Minor scrapes and bruises for the rest of us, as far as I can tell. But Barton…" she trailed off, her hand gripping her partner's bruised arm gently. Deluca asked, "Is he breathing?" Natasha gave a soft affirmation, and the doctor said, "Good, that's something. I can work with breathing. Is his heart beating?" There was another quiet word, and Ann said, "So he's alive, at least technically. I can probably fix everything else that's wrong with him. So just tell me what the idiot's done."

Natasha was quiet for another moment, and Ann's voice was infinitely more gentle and more sardonic when she added, "Knowing him, it's just easier to tell me what he _hasn't_ done to himself; it'll be the shorter list. But pick a damn list already and rattle it off."

Inhaling deeply, the Black Widow finally slipped into action, and Steve came over to lend a hand as she cut the quiver strap from across his chest and unzipped his vest carefully.

"He's got a nasty burn on his collarbone, it looks like. Some pretty deep bruising on his throat and across his chest and shoulders from a strangulation attempt. He's took a good hit to the head somewhere; pretty positive he's got a concussion."

Deluca waved that away and said, "We'll get there before it can be a problem, so don't do anything silly like trying to wake him up."

Steve frowned and glanced up unnecessarily as he asked, "But, isn't is standard procedure for victims of head trauma to remain awake?"

There was a sharp bark of impatient laughter before Ann responded, "Yeah, and he's a highly trained assassin. Waking up one of them in pain, disoriented, and immediately post-combat usually ends you with a knife at your throat or worse. Leave it. What else?"

Peeling back his vest from where it was tacky and sticking against his side, Natasha frowned as she pulled a wad of damp paper towels from the area and asked no one in particular, "Is that…what is that?"

Tony spoke up from where he'd been leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, his eyes dark as he watched the process.

"Uh, that would be clear silicone caulk. Boy Wonder here decided to spread it over the massive puncture wound he received in his side when he fell through the street into the subway. Jarvis was worried about spleen damage but apparently that's not an issue anymore."

Natasha glanced at him then blinked down at the ugly and raw but surprisingly blood-free area around the wound.

"Deluca, did you get that?" she asked as she replaced the towels and moved to his legs, running her hands over his joints.

"Yeah; he pulled the same trick in Bogotá one time. Messy, disgusting, hurts like hell, and a pain in the ass to clean up later, but effective first aid in the field if it's gotta be done. Doesn't mean I'm not gonna beat the crap out of him when I get a hold of him, though. And I swear to God, his spleen has a goddamn target painted on it. Next?"

Clint shifted and moaned slightly as Natasha palpated the swollen areas of his left leg in turn, grimacing.

"Broken femur, bad sprains on his knee and ankle. Maybe some ACL damage, but it's hard to tell," she informed as Steve helped roll the man to his side, almost biting her tongue as her jaw clicked shut against the sheer enormity of blood below the agent.

A closer look revealed it was pouring out of numerous deep lacerations in his back and shoulders. If Natasha didn't know any better, she'd swear he'd been whipped.

"He's got some pretty bad cuts on his back, and they're still bleeding pretty good. And if his reaction when we turned him is any indication, he's got some heavy damage to his ribs, too. And he's breathing badly," she added as they carefully rolled him back down, this time on top of a soft afghan that Tony produced from nowhere.

"Yeah, well, the bastard doesn't do things halfway, does he? Now you mentioned his breathing a second ago; what exactly is bad about it? Be specific," she ordered, the abrupt medical focus worrying the team.

Watching him for a few breaths, Natasha finally said, "It sounds rough, it's shallow, and quick." Dropping her ear to his chest, she listened for a minute before sitting back up and said, "I can hear it in his chest. He sounds…he sounds like he's drowning."

Tony supplied helpfully, "He breathed in a few cubic feet of construction dust during today's misadventures. Jarvis said something about deep chest congestion earlier."

"Is that it? Is that everything major?" Deluca asked sternly, and Natasha ran her eyes over Barton again before she nodded and said, "Fever, shaking, pale, sweating, clammy skin…yeah, pretty sure."

There was a handful of heartbeats between her words and Ann's abrupt orders to someone else on the ship.

"Write this down, okay? Got a pen? Good. Blood loss, shock, dehydration. Add exhaustion on there. Multiple lacerations and contusions. Tracheal damage. Puncture wound to the torso; possible internal injuries to the stomach and left lung. Fractured femur; make sure to grab the correct brace this time. Ice; get about a dozen ice packs – don't skimp. This is going to be a scoop and go, stabilization only. Grab saline but skip the morphine; we're dealing with a probable concussion and head trauma. Get an extra O2 tank, because we've got some crap in his lungs, too, with the possible beginnings of pneumonia. Grab the rest of the standard extraction supplies and load them up. Go. …Go, dammit!"

When she turned her attention back to the team, her voice was just as hard and rapid as it had been with whatever underling she'd been barking orders at.

"Listen to me good, Natasha," Deluca ordered, and the uncharacteristic use of her first name made the spy straighten slightly. "He's not dying, but he's not good, either. We'll be there in fifteen minutes, and it's going to be the longest fifteen minutes of your life. Keep him from bleeding out with gentle pressure only; don't put any extra weight on those ribs, because he's having a hard enough time breathing already. If he comes to, try to keep him awake. And if he wakes up, he's going to be confused as hell, so take it easy on him. If he doesn't wake up, keep him from choking on his own spit. He might throw up because of the head wound; roll him to the standard recovery position if he does and leave him there. If he's in pain, it's a good thing, so don't try to alleviate it. Understand?"

The woman on the other end of the line was suddenly gone, replaced by a cussing, snarling director before Natasha could confirm her directions.

"It's a good thing you're the best damn trauma surgeon on the planet, Deluca! Son of a bitch!" Fury shouted in his mic, and Tony didn't even try to hide his smirk, satisfied that someone else had gotten a leg up on the man.

"Romanoff, we're sending two quinjets for the extraction; follow Coulson's lead on this, all right?"

Accustomed to following orders blindly, Natasha affirmed his words, gave him a sit rep on the security situation in the city, and listened without interest as he muttered something about the Council. Then there were terse 10-4's exchanged before the line went quiet.

Natasha ignored the rest of the team for a moment as she ran a hand over her face, abruptly stopping when she realized it was smeared with Clint's blood. She dropped her hand and stared at it, swallowing reflexively when she saw it caked on her skin. With her eyes trained on her hand like she had a snake in it, she didn't even see the metal contraption that was lumbering up to her slowly. As a shadow fell over her, she looked up quickly, blinking at the long robotic arm attached to a wheeled base. The tip of the arm had a three pronged claw, and it was carefully offering her a first aid kit.

Taking the metal box, she caught sight of two bolts in the head of the claw that she'd swear looked like eyes, and she gave a slight nod of thanks.

"Every once in awhile, Dummy is useful for something more than breaking things," Tony said as he sidled up to them, patting the robotic arm.

Steve cast a critical eye over the thing and said, "This is yours? Isn't it a little less…you? I mean, less you than your stuff usually is."

Tossing his hands in the air as he turned to the soldier, Tony said, "I hadn't even had my first zit when I built him. Give me a break!"

Thor abruptly asked, "What is a zit?"

Rolling his eyes and shaking his head, Tony asked, "Are you serious? So, you guys are really superhuman, then. Because I don't care how awesome your healthcare plan is, no one's skin is completely acne-resistant, except, apparently, for godlike aliens."

Natasha opened the first aid kit and hid her small smile at the banter as she pulled a few squares of gauze and wet them down using a small bottle of water contained in the kit. She pressed the gauze to the seeping wound at his temple, unsurprised when his eyes flickered at the ministration.

"Relax, Barton. Situation's normal," she murmured, and his head rolled slightly in her direction, his tongue rolling along his lips instinctively with the coolness of the fabric she had pressed against his burning skin.

Continuing a litany of breathed reassurances as she grabbed the bottle of water from beside her, she slid a hand under his head and leveled him up slightly, pressing the bottle to his lips. His left hand twitched but he didn't reach up. She pretended not to notice his weakness for her sake as well as his own.

"Easy, Clint. Small sips," she whispered, but he still choked on the first trickle of moisture. Cursing softly under her breath, she set the bottle aside and angled his head up a little better as she apologized breathlessly, "Shit, sorry, Clint!"

He turned his head as he coughed slightly, eyes fluttering open, and he blinked up at her rapidly, eyes unfocused, and his words slurred heavily as he moaned, "What…where…?"

Taking pity on his confusion even though her heart tweaked with worry as his right hand mindlessly came up to clamp against his side, she shushed him and answered in low tones, aware of the headache he would be fighting.

"It's okay; you got hit really hard in the head. We're at Stark Tower in New York City. Do you remember the fight?" she asked softly, and his reaction simultaneously scared and baffled her.

Instead of giving her a straight answer, his eyes closed and he started speaking rapidly, his words coming in bursts, and she jerked as she realized she had no clue what language he was speaking.

"Egin ezazu gelditzeko. Ezin izango dut bizirik irauteko honetan. Egin ezazu gelditzeko. Barkatzen dit, anaia. Zer egin dut?"

His rambling caught the attention of the rest of the team and they quieted, while Natasha stared down at him, her breath coming harshly, and she fought to find words as he opened his eyes again and looked straight at her, a strange downward quirk tipping at his chapped lips.

"Tell me when it will get better, Barney. Can you tell me?" Freezing, the spy said nothing, and Clint's eyes drifted shut again as he murmured, "You say they can't keep hitting us forever. You say we'll leave again. When will it get better, Barney?"

Then he was still and quiet, his breathing mostly even, his eyes unmoving beneath his lids. Natasha could feel the heavy weight of the stares of the rest of the team, but she ignored them for a moment. She searched her memory fervently, knowing she'd heard that name before, swearing up and down she'd know it if it was said in a different voice, a less broken, less childish voice.

But she couldn't place it, and she gave up for the moment, pressed by more urgent matters.

"What was that about? What was he saying before that?" Steve asked, staring at the assassins, desperately wishing they both didn't have so many damned secrets.

Surprisingly, it was Tony who answered instead of the AI; Jarvis was being suspiciously quiet at the moment.

"I don't think it much matters right now, Rogers. He was speaking in a divine tongue, for all we know. Point we need to be focused on is keeping him alive until the crazy-scary dragon lady gets here. And if any of you tell her I said that, I'll sign all of you up for a World of Warcraft tournament on the helicarrier. Their guild is called AEGIS, and yes, almost all the techs play," he threatened, his fingers dancing over the small table beside him.

Natasha noticed but said nothing about it, while Thor cast a wary eye between Steve and Tony and said, "You Midgardians are very strange. And I still find many of you tiny."

The banter started up again, Hulk happily maintaining a heavy hand in keeping the bound demigod on the ground, and Natasha leveled a heavy look at Tony, one he returned in a split moment of distraction, his features stern. She jerked her chin to the small table his hand was resting on and he shrugged slightly. Nodding, she turned her attention back to her unconscious partner as she quietly rued Deluca's words.

Yes, it was the longest fifteen damn minutes of her life.

* * *

End Chapter Seventeen


	18. Chapter 18

Title: Bruises – Chapter Eighteen

Author: Lucky Gun

Summary: Because Loki's possession of one of the sharpest minds in SHIELD wasn't easy. In fact, it barely worked at all. A better take on Clint's forced defection, return to the Avengers, and the aftermath. Contains whump, language, torture, and all the horrors of a POW. AU.

A/N: And here comes a bit more levity, even as it's mixed with a fair bit of detailed medical descriptions. I am currently figuring out a possible sequel to this story; please let me know if a review if you're interested in one.

* * *

It was quiet in the penthouse, the sounds of sirens barely making their way through the open wall. The team was silent, only Hulk making any noise. Steve and Tony were standing behind Natasha, their eyes shifting restlessly from the unconscious archer on the floor and the demented demigod on the far side of the room. Thor paced silently, back and forth, his steps heavier than they usually were. Natasha ignored all of them and busied herself with doing what she could for her partner, cleaning as much blood off his skin as possible. She moved to his hands, methodically wiping down his fingers, his palms, all the way up to his wrists. Every swipe that removed blood revealed bruises, but she worked carefully, delicately. If they were anything but what they were, if they were anything to each other but who they were, there may have been intimacy in the act. As it was, they were assassins, they were partners, and his hands were just one of his many weapons. But they were beloved, cherished weapons, and she cleaned them reverently.

Intent on her motions as she was, she almost didn't hear the planes until they were practically on the tower. She looked out the window, automatically tensing as she put herself between her injured partner and the noise. But one quinjet broke off and started circling the tower slowly, bristling with weapons, while the other settled into a perfect hover about a foot above the just-barely-too-small helipad. Tony grumbled again about the size of his pad and how it was twelve percent Pepper's fault as the ramp dropped open. The flurry of white and black that spilled out of the jet was controlled chaos that flowed over the stone walkway into the penthouse.

Her nerves finally settling as she saw a face she recognized, Natasha nodded once to the man in front of her.

"Coulson," she greeted stoically, and he nodded back. He glanced at the rest of the team before turning his attention to the downed agent.

"Director Fury wants me to convey the thanks of the Council on all of your efforts in combating this threat," he said diplomatically, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

Steve exhaled softly, shaking his head, while Tony smirked mirthlessly.

"So, that's a no on the apology for them almost killing me?" he asked rhetorically, and Phil gave him a responding quirked grin.

"We have a separate unit coming to remand Loki to custody and collect the Tesseract," he added, eyeing the colorful bindings on the demigod.

Thor looked like he was about to argue the point before another voice came from behind Coulson, slightly more snarky than usual.

"Son of a bitch, I _hate_ flying."

Natasha looked over Phil's shoulder and blinked at the CMO who was walking up to them; the woman's dislike of flying was well known, and she almost always traded shifts when the helicarrier took to the skies. So seeing her stumble slightly as she stepped from the quinjet was quite a shock. For her part, Deluca raised an eyebrow at the assassin and then looked over the rest of the team, her eyes taking in everything with a healer's gaze. Her eyes lingered a little longer on the bruises visible against the still-pale skin on Tony's face, the burn mark in Steve's gut, the red stain on Thor's side, and the multiple scrapes in Hulk's green hide.

Turning a sharp look to Natasha and grabbing her chin with her long fingers, Ann probed the gash on her forehead with a practiced finger and snapped, "I thought you said it was minor scrapes and bruises for the rest of you. Why the hell didn't you mention everything else?" Her attention turned to Tony and added, "You were dead for two minutes, you moron. Sit your ass down before you fall down."

Blinking, the billionaire dropped in place immediately, chagrined by the tone of voice, and Steve did his best to keep from smiling. Then Deluca looked at him and gave him a cutting glare. Swallowing, he sat abruptly next to Tony, and a withering stare to Thor had him take an impromptu seat, as well. They sat silently along the stairs, eyes averted, hands in their laps, looking to all the world as three berated school children caught cheating on a test.

Hulk grunted in her direction, and she didn't even look at him as she barked, "And you can keep your thoughts to yourself, Banner. If there wasn't an insane alien being crushed under your thumb, I'd have you sedated in a heartbeat, but as it is I'm feeling generous right now."

There were a few silent seconds as Hulk gave her a confused look, then a shrug, and Coulson hid a small smile. It was well known throughout the helicarrier that nothing scared Dr. Ann Deluca, and it was nice to see that even with all the craziness in the world, some things remained constant.

Ann frowned slightly as she shined a penlight in Natasha's eyes and said, "You've got a mild concussion; you know the drill on the recovery. And the fact that you got hit in the head is the only reason I'm not tearing you a new one for not telling me about the rest of the team's injuries." She ran her angry glare over the three men sitting quietly and growled, "But you three have no damned excuse. Your comms were working just like hers and one of you should've said something. If you bleed out on the way back to base because we didn't bring enough supplies because you all thought it was noble or some other lame ass thing to keep your mouths shut, it's your own damn fault. I won't even come to your funeral."

Tony seemed like he was considering speaking, and Deluca shook her head as she finally let go of Natasha's chin and snarled, "Don't. If there's one thing I can't stand it's stupid-ass heroics when there's no need for them. The fight's over, the bad guys lost, the good guys won, and you're now able to receive medical attention. So what do you do? You keep your mouths shut and decide bleeding is a better idea."

It was Natasha who finally braved the cold words and said softly, "We weren't thinking. Clint…"

At the name of the agent that could arguable seen as Deluca's favorite, the ice thawed a bit and she sighed heavily as she started towards where her trusted team was still working on the man.

She glanced over her shoulder at the Avengers and said, "I am going to let this one go, this _one_ time. From now on, when a mission's done, you tell me everything. About everyone. If you have a goddamn infected hangnail, I need to know. Not because it will necessarily kill you, but because I can't fix it if I don't know about it. And if I find out about it later, then _I_ will kill you. Is that understood or do I need to get an interpreter for the hard of hearing?"

There were quick nods all around and Natasha smiled slightly. The woman was everything they weren't; she operated with few verbal filters, claiming that at her age, she'd earned the right to say what she wanted, when she wanted, to whomever she wanted to say it to. And while that apparently now included punching the director of SHIELD, Deluca still somehow managed to keep not just her life, but her job. It was an admirable talent.

Ann knelt down next to Barton and didn't groan about the hard floor as she finally got a look at all the damned blood still leaking out of him. Her team had operated quickly and efficiently; this particular group of people had worked with her for four years and were some of the best. They knew how to weather her storms and knew how to anticipate her orders. They were as well-oiled a machine as they came. So she wasn't surprised to see the air brace surrounding the top of Clint's left leg, the ice packs velcroed to several of his joints, or gauze wrapped up his bare arms, covering various abrasions and cuts with the nonstick fabric. They'd waited for her for the worst injuries, just like they'd been trained.

Her eyes tracking the crimson on the floor, Deluca knew he wouldn't bleed out in the next few minutes; as bad as it looked against the dark stone, he'd lost maybe six ounces, ten on the outside, since he'd been laying there. Given that he always maintained his usual amount of activity whenever he was wounded, she figured she had maybe twenty minutes until he bled out, and she worked much quicker than that. She snapped on a pair of latex gloves quickly and felt his pulse, touched her forearm to his wrist, and got down to business.

"Blood pressure?" she asked, and one of her team immediately gave a reading from a cuff they'd already attached. "Sixty over fifty nine."

Pulling her ever-present, horribly stereotypical, and terribly clichéd stethoscope from around her neck as the team cut his vest off of his body, she pressed the round disk to Barton's chest, listening to his heart and lungs for a few seconds.

Wrapping the stethoscope back around her neck, she started palpating his ribs, mentally marking the ones that shifted under her fingers.

"Hypovolemic shock. Nothing we didn't expect. Start a line of saline, piggyback the dopamine. Let's start with five milligrams a minute; we'll jump it once we've got him in the jet. What's he running on the Glascow?" she asked, glancing at another of the trauma specialists she'd trained.

"GCS 8: E2, V2, M4 at 6:02 pm," he rattled, and Ann checked her watch; four minutes ago. Cursing under her breath, she nodded and said, "Hopefully that's skewed by previous trauma. Mark this: ribs five through eight on the left with distal fractures. Assume all others bruised. Shifting under pressure, but breath sounds in both lungs are flowing. Doesn't look like we've got a pneumothorax, thank God; kid's got more damn lives than Heathcliff. And I just showed my age. Awesome. Anyway, there might be some rattling but it'll be easier to hear when we move to his back. Go ahead and get the O2 mask prepped, but hold off until I get a better handle on the congestion."

The man nodded and she turned her attention back to the deep gouge that was now visible in his side. She pressed the edges of the clear caulking and nodded as it gave a bit; it was still tacky.

"Good job, Barton," she murmured, catching sight of the wet towels one of her team had removed.

After his last frenzied attempt to use silicone caulking as a makeshift bandage, they'd both learned their lessons. Yes, it worked great in a pinch, until the damn stuff dried. They'd had to cut the caulking from the bullet wound in his leg, and she'd almost felt sorry for him when he'd gotten an infection afterwards. But they couldn't regret it, either; he would've bled out in the six days between getting shot and his extraction if he hadn't done it, and it had been, actually, a good idea. He'd experimented afterwards and found that keeping the environment around the caulking damp kept it from drying out, which made it easier than hell to get back out. Ann was decidedly happy he'd taken the time to figure it out.

"Wipe out as much of that as you can; it's gonna bleed like a sumbitch when you get past the surface tissue. Use alcohol pads when you get there to help dissolve the rest of it. Soak it in povidone-iodine and wrap it tightly; we'll have to go in to repair whatever got nicked it there, so just keep it from bleeding out," she ordered, and turned her attention to the burn at his collarbone with only the slightest wince.

It wasn't wide, but it was deep, and she swallowed reflexively as she saw the innermost parts blackened and charred. But then she saw clear blisters scattered throughout, and she frowned. Pressing a finger gently against the center of the burn, she grinned when he hissed and shifted in his unconsciousness.

"All right. Looks like a fourth but it acts like a second with superficial partial thickness. Not nearly as bad as I thought. Use enzymatic debridement, wrap it with some film, and get an ice pack on there," she ordered.

Ann blocked out the frenzy as the team flurried around her, and she shifted slightly to accommodate their movements. She ran her fingers over his neck and throat, feeling the tightness caused by the dark blue and black bruising. Deluca reached over and grabbed one of his limp hands, peering at the beds of his fingernails, then pointed at one of her team.

"Keep an eye on his throat. Slight tracheal restriction due to edema from bruising. Probably dysphagic, but fortunately not hypoxic, at least not yet. Put some cold compresses on his throat but watch his temperature. We don't want him going hypothermic. What's he running at now?" she asked, shifting gears, and the answer came almost immediately, "Hovering at 104.5, started at 104.2. Should we start an antipyretic?"

Weighing her options, Ann shook her head and said, "He took two pre-measured corticosteroids within the last eight hours; they should help keep it down, and I don't like the NSAIDs we've got to use here. Monitor his fever damned close, and until it gets to about 105, we'll rely on ice. If it starts going up then we'll administer a half dose of acetaminophen. That slice in his side may have caught his stomach, and I want to put as little stress on it as possible."

She moved to Clint's head and tilted it to the side to get a better look at the gash. It was a bit wider than her thumb and more than half the length of her hand, but the bleeding was at least growing sluggish. Pinching the edges of the gash, Ann was able to determine that the skin had split instead of having been scored off.

"Pack it in gauze and wrap it tight. We'll use cyanocrylate to close it up back at base." Using her ever-handy penlight to check his pupils, she frowned slightly at the slight cloudiness in his sightless eyes. He responded sluggishly to the light, and she repeated the test twice, just to be sure. "Definitely a serious concussion, but it seems like a high one, maybe a mid two, not a class three. We'll keep a close eye on it. Let me know when we're good to check his back."

She stood and backed up, arms crossed as she watched her team carefully. She didn't have anything to worry about, really, except for Barton's body doing something ridiculously stupid. But he was in good hands at the moment, so she turned her attention back to the rest of the team.

While she'd been dealing with Clint's biological train wreck, two teams from SHIELD had apparently swept in and removed both Loki and the Tesseract from the building. The only way she knew was because (other than the obvious absence of the demigod) the team had relaxed and Thor had gotten a very royal glint in his eye.

"All right, while they're doing that, is there anything else you all need to tell me?" she asked sternly, her eyes fixing on each of the Avengers in turn.

But they were all staring at the hustle and bustle surrounding their teammate, and Deluca cleared her throat loudly, waiting impatiently until they all turned to her.

"I asked…if there's anything…else…you all need…to tell me," she enunciated slowly, carefully, sarcastically.

Natasha shook her head, wincing, while Tony turned his bruised cheek away from the doctor. Steve shifted his shield in front of his burn, and Thor clasped his hands in front of him, his arm hiding the stab wound he'd acquired somewhere along the way. Giving them an exasperated but abruptly fond look, she glanced back over her shoulder and sighed loudly.

"He's banged up but he ought to be fine, the crazy bastard. Just need to get him back to base is all," she reassured, and their stances eased slightly.

Then one of the specialists hovering around Barton called, "Ready to flip him, doctor."

Without sparing the stoically quiet team another word, Ann placed herself back at Clint's side. The medical team had fastened velcro straps around the agent's legs, just above his ankle and above and below his knee, essentially using the man's unbroken leg as part of a splint for his broken leg. One of the specialists held his head carefully while the rest of the team rolled him slowly onto his side, removing the rest of his vest as they did so. Deluca pressed her stethoscope to the skin above his lungs as two of her team used saline in angled squirt bottles to rinse the blood off his back.

Listening intently, moving her hand every few seconds, Ann finally said, "Yeah, definitely got some end-inspiratory crackling in both lungs. Construction dust at least means it's not pulmonary edema, but we've got the strangulation attempt to deal with, too. Call it ALI-ARDS and get that mask on him. Can we get a read on his pulse ox?"

A white wireless clip was popped onto one of Barton's fingers, a handheld display digitally announcing the reading: "Pulse oximetry 88%."

Deluca's lips thinned and she said, "Put it at 40%. We'll back it down to 35% when his pulse ox gets to 90% for five minutes or more. Keep an eye on it."

There were quiet affirmations and then Ann shouldered her stethoscope again and probed the half dozen gashes she could see sliced through his skin. Frowning, she barked, "His bow got caught on something and hung him. Good thing it was reversed. If the frame had been on his back, it would've cut his chest. You said he fell into the subway from street level?"

Tony nodded at her quick look, and she snapped some curse that was too low to make out.

"Must've happened when he fell. Son of a bitch…there are metal splinters in here. Damned 'Made in China' crap…" she muttered to herself before turning her attention back to the medical team awaiting instructions.

"We've got at least three splinters in this gash alone. Pressure bandage them and call it even; we'll have to go in surgically to get them out. There's a fair bit of debris in there, too. Wash them out before you wrap them up or we might get an infection that could box his lungs, compromised as they are. Standard backboard, but skip the neck stabilizer; I'm worried about that swelling and I'd rather not make it worse. When you get him on the gurney make sure you use restraints on his hands and feet, otherwise you'll be dead before you know it if he wakes up," Ann warned, not exaggerating.

After a botched mission that had left him captured and chemically interrogated by a traitor within the KGB, Clint had come to on the helicarrier after his retrieval in a more than violent manner. He'd had Deluca on the ground and Coulson an inch from getting his throat cut before Natasha had heard the ruckus and moved in, knocking him out again. After that, it became standard operating procedure to have all level five and above field agents restrained until a proper cognition check could be performed. It was just one of many policies that the archer had directly or indirectly been responsible for creating.

Stepping back again, Ann watched as her team moved smoothly through the motions, murmuring amongst themselves, working perfectly together. Deluca couldn't stand handholding and nose-wiping, and she expected adults to act like adults. If they didn't, she damn well put them in their place in a heartbeat (and that place was usually off her team). There was a marked difference between deference to her for her medical expertise and laziness and incompetence. The latter two characteristics tended to make her very vocal in Director Fury's presence. So she expected nothing less than what she got, which was a quick and gentle maneuvering of the man onto a stiff board before being transferred to a rolling stretcher they'd brought with them.

Deluca held her breath as the oxygen mask and restraints slipped on without a hitch, the man beneath them never stirring. She made a note to check his Glascow score again when they got into the jet, and she turned to Coulson, who was standing next to the team now gathered around together.

"You want to clue them in on the situation base-side, Phil? Or were you waiting until the third date?" she asked dryly, and her words weren't sarcastic enough to hide the unease in her voice.

Coulson frowned slightly as he turned to Natasha, the entire Avengers team moving in close, the darkness in his features telling.

"We had a security breach on the carrier. Approximately twenty minutes before the plane launched with the nuclear missile, Agent Barton's quarters were ransacked and vandalized. We believe it was the work of a small group of individuals on board, but our camera system is still being repaired and we can't determine who the perpetrators were," he explained lowly, and Tony and Natasha exchanged a hard look.

"What kind of vandalism are we talking about here? Food coloring in his shampoo, or…?" Tony asked slowly, and the growing tightness at the corners of Phil's eyes was a good indication they weren't going to like his answer.

"Almost all the standard equipment in the room was destroyed, what few of his personal belongings he actually owned were either broken or stolen, and there was graffiti on a few of the walls: 'Benedict Arnold', 'the new 9/11', amongst others. There was additional graffiti on his door: 'Open Season on Hawks'. And there was attempted arson, and more crude but possibly credible threats throughout the room. His personal locker was also vandalized. Someone took a photo of him and drew X's on his eyes and taped it to the door."

There were several heartbeats of silence before Steve asked incredulously, "They blame him for what he did while under Loki's control? Do they know how much he resisted him? What it cost him?"

Deluca frowned and gave him a strange look as she said, "Don't think this is the standard mindset on board, Rogers. Barton's been with us since he was twenty years old; he was the youngest agent ever recruited into SHIELD. And with the security protocols around there, high turnaround isn't exactly an issue. Most of the people on that boat have worked alongside him their entire careers, and he's well respected by almost all of them. Don't judge the many for the actions of a few imbeciles, Captain."

The look on her face was reminiscent of a mother bear protecting her cubs, and Steve held up a hand in surrender.

"I understand that, I do, and I'm not saying it's all of them. But if it's a few of them, even with as tight knit as some of the agency is, it's going to be damned hard to flush them out. What's the plan until then? If they resorted to arson, if any of these threats are credible, there's no telling what they're willing to try," he reasoned, and Tony nodded slightly as he glanced around the room they were in.

"Well, I can get contractors in here to fix this place up and we can be up and running in four weeks, maybe three; when it's done we can stay here for a bit. Is there somewhere other than the ship that we can hide him until he catches up on his beauty sleep?"

Phil's expression grew more severe, if it was possible, and he said, "Unfortunately, we aren't the only ones who had the security footage of Barton killing the guards in Stuttgart, we were only the first. Germany issued a warrant for his arrest, and Interpol has listed Barton in their top ten most wanted. There has been chatter among the bounty hunter groups, and we're fairly certain there's a price on his head. Between Director Fury and the Council, believe it or not, they've managed to keep the FBI and the CIA from putting out their own warrants for him."

Blinking her comprehension, Natasha asked, "So, what? Protective custody on the helicarrier?"

Coulson nodded, and Deluca jumped in, "And they're requiring him to undergo a full range of psychiatric evaluations. I don't need to tell any of you how phenomenally retarded of an idea that is. Barton doesn't deal with crap by talking about it, he shovels it the hell out of the way and works through it at his own pace. But if we don't come up with a viable alternative, the Council _will_ strap him down and forcefully debrief him. And, damn it all to puss-spewing, blood-gutted hell, no one's the same after that, ever."

Hulk's fists tightened to the point where they could hear his muscles flexing under his skin, and Thor, who'd been quiet up until that point, slowly raised a finger in the air and glanced around as he got the attention of the entire group.

"You're talking about a mindhealer, correct? To help him correct the destruction Loki wreaked in his mental halls?" he asked, and Deluca shrugged a bit as she nodded, saying, "Yeah, Shakespeare. You got any ideas?"

Smiling slightly, the Asgardian said, "I believe I might."

They all looked back over at Clint as the medical team finished stabilizing him, standing around the low gurney, their voices soft as they compared notes. The agent was almost dwarfed by the sheer amount of portable medical equipment attached to him: the oxygen mask fogging slightly with his shallow breaths, the clear bags of liquid dripping into the back of his hand, the blood pressure cuff on his arm, the O2 sensor on his finger, the whiteness of the bandages, the crimson of the blood…it was almost overwhelming.

Moving silently, slowly, the weight of the man's life visible in her movements, Deluca reached into the large duffel hanging from the foot of the stretcher and pulled a roughly folded, thick black square of fabric. Unfolding it carefully, reverently, respectfully, Ann shook it out. It was a SHIELD-issued jacket, the eagle and stars emblazoned on the top of the left front chest panel, chrome snaps and zippers shining in the light. An embroidered American flag was sewn onto the right upper arm, and the United Nations logo was on the left. She laid it over Clint's bandaged chest and smoothed it out over him, the jacket's back visible to the world. The lettering was white and stood out against the dark background.

HAWKEYE

Staring at the single word for longer than a moment, Deluca finally nodded once and looked back up at her team.

"Waiting for an engraved invitation or something, ya jackwagons? Let's get going."

* * *

End Chapter Eighteen


	19. Chapter 19

Title: Bruises – Chapter Nineteen

Author: Lucky Gun

Summary: Because Loki's possession of one of the sharpest minds in SHIELD wasn't easy. In fact, it barely worked at all. A better take on Clint's forced defection, return to the Avengers, and the aftermath. Contains whump, language, torture, and all the horrors of a POW. AU.

A/N: This was GOING to be the LAST chapter, but my muses apparently decided to drag this out a little bit longer. Cheeky bastards…

* * *

Clint walked the halls of his mind slowly, surveying the damage, his gaze tracking over the rubble. There were piles of red dust from where the marble had been ground into powder, and splinters and sawdust coated the dirt floor liberally. He looked over the destruction bleakly, detached from the severity of the devastation. The mists swirled above his head like a stream, eddying and flowing randomly, swirls of rapid movement broadcasting the locations of the worst memories. He glanced up at the mist numbly and then dropped his gaze, shaking his head slowly.

He shuffled along the hall silently, crawling over whole slabs of wall, crossing gaping chasms in the floor carefully. Barton's eyes were drawn to the moaning maws of destroyed doorways, the darkness within them sucking at him like a vortex, and he skirted their crushing depths fearfully. He knew what strength it took to lock away his memories like he did, knew what power was hidden within those dark caverns. It drained him daily, the constant effort, the constant rise and fall of the gravitational tides within himself as the worst parts of his past struggled for domination over the best parts of his future.

Following the bloody drag marks on the dirt floor, he found himself at the edge of his innermost self, the room in ruins. What had been walls had crumbled into brick-sized debris and the ground was jagged, sections the size of cars jutting from the floor at odd angles. He picked his way across the rubble and found himself standing in front of the folding metal chair. Clint swallowed reflexively as he saw the dark red of dried blood splattered across it in a wide arc, areas of blackened rust spreading from the tarnished surface. He looked away for a moment, his fingers flexing automatically as he recalled loosing the arrow that had finally destroyed Loki's influence within him.

Or at least Clint thought he had.

There were bright blue veins of light feathered throughout his mind, digging through dirt and stone equally. The hue made bile slick his tongue as he realized it was everywhere. It was spread thick like poison, and it was coloring the very air he breathed. He was choking on it, suffocating, drowning in it, his throat closing and his chest compressing painfully.

Dropping to his knees in front of the chair, he coughed and gasped, one hand grabbing uselessly at his neck as he tried to bite back the rising panic. He felt moisture against his skin that had nothing to do with the desperate tears that rolled down his cheeks, and he looked up, vision blurring. He saw a tendril of the mist above him caressing his face, the flash of light within it blinding him for a moment.

Then he shut his eyes and leaned into the cool touch as darkness lapped at his senses, taking him away.

* * *

She grinned at him across the boat, the spray of seawater soaking them both to the bone. He quirked his lips at her and shoved the throttle into the midway position. The 41 Super Leggera surged ahead, the twin Mercury Racing 700 SCI engines racing as they plowed through the ocean like a bat out of hell. The sounds of explosions dimmed beneath the roar of the engines, and they looked back at the same time, their eyes locking on the rapidly shrinking cloud of smoke that billowed out of the oil rig they'd left rather rapidly.

For once, neither one of them had been injured, the objectives in their mission brief all had neat little check marks beside them, and they were even ahead of schedule. The hit had gone down without a hitch and it was fairly simple to make the oil platform blow in a way that wouldn't cause suspicion. Sure, the company that operated it would be cited for failure to maintain safety standards, but they'd been running a smuggling operation off that rig, and SHIELD figured the political and financial fallout for the company was a cheap price for it to pay. But the leader if the smuggling ring was dead, his cronies were scattered, and the chain of command and their base were destroyed. Pretty simple write up, actually.

The fact that Clint had decided to 'borrow' the brand new Outer Limits powerboat that was berthed at the rig was one he was determined to accidentally omit from his report.

So he turned his attention forward and relished the temperate spray as it ran in rivulets down his skin. His hands were loose and sure on the wheel, and he whooped with open joy as they bounced along a few rough waves. Beside him, Natasha laughed out loud as they skipped over the water like a child's skipping stone. He stared through his red tinted sunglasses at the horizon as they flew along the ocean's surface, mind flying free. They raced along for almost an hour before his sharp vision started picking out pieces of land.

He looked over at his partner, grinning when he saw she'd removed the top part of her uniform, her freckles standing out on the pale skin her tank top didn't cover. She looked out over the waves, her features relaxed even with the eighty mile an hour dash. Without a word, he turned the wheel slightly, angling them on a course parallel to shore instead of towards it, and Natasha glanced over at him, a single eyebrow raised. He shrugged, she smiled again, and then she reached over and forced the throttle all the way forward. Clint was pushed back in his seat by the momentum, and her squeal of laughter flowed over him, the sound warmer than the sun. He chuckled with her and tilted his head back, contentment covering him head to toe, and he sighed.

For his part, Coulson never asked why it took them seven hours to make a two hour trip.

* * *

Clint blinked back to awareness and found himself curled in a ball on the floor of the large, round room in his mind, his thoughts surprisingly light. He sat up slowly as he looked around, shocked to find parts of the walls reformed and the floors more level. He glanced up at the mist; it was thinner than it had been, and it was glowing a brighter white than before. Ducking his head and pushing himself to his feet, he scanned the area slowly, documenting the changes in his head.

He walked to the edge of the hall and looked down it, stumbling a bit when he saw whole sections of marble halls reconstituted and some timbers erected in their proper places. He glanced back up at the mist and gave a slight grin as he thought of the memory he'd relived. The Gulf of Mexico held a special place in his soul, and he hoped he'd never have a mission that sullied that.

But another look down the hall turned his mindscape a bit darker, the unnatural lighting dimming. Blue lines of magic still coursed through the area, and they glowed and pulsed gently. He felt rising nausea in his gut and tried to force it down, his gag reflex tweaking at the back of his throat.

Then something else echoed through the air, something that wasn't tainted by Loki's lingering influence. It started as a low hum, something just on the edge of hearing, and grew until he could make out individual words. He clung to the sound as his stomach started to settle, holding onto the voices with everything he had, praying they would never leave.

* * *

"You really think poking him with a pen is appropriate?"

"I ran out of doodling paper."

"That wasn't doodling paper, you ignorant bastard. That was Barton's medical chart, and if I find a single mark on this new copy, I will break every single bone in your hand and bar my medical staff from treating you. Understand?"

"Yeah, question about that. Just a quick one. Isn't it, like, against your Hippocratic oath to threaten bodily injury on someone who's already wounded? First do no harm, or something like that, right?"

"Actually, the modern version of the oath says nothing like that. And anyway, I took the Oath of Maimonides."

"The what? No, wait a second. Hang on. Hang on. …Okay, that's interesting."

"…Did you just use your phone to pull up the Oath of Maimonides?"

"Would I do something completely and technologically marvelous like that?"

"You wouldn't, if you actually cared that this is a no cell phone area. Shut it off before I drop it in a urine sample."

"Almost done…"

"Hey, see the part of the oath where it says, 'may I never see in the patient anything but a fellow creature in pain'? See that?"

"Uh, yep. Second paragraph."

"I don't see that as a restriction."

"Interesting. What do you see it as, then?"

"A challenge, Stark."

"…Seeing patients in pain. A goal. Gotcha. Phone gone!"

"Good choice. Stop poking Barton with a pen."

"But he's so fun to poke!"

"…He's going to wake up, Stark."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know. It's just the fact that he hasn't that's worrying me a slight bit."

"Just slightly, huh? That explains why you haven't eaten in the last two days."

"I get airsick."

"Uh huh. Iron Man gets airsick. That's a new one for the tabloids. Stop bullshitting; I can't stand it. What did you come here to ask?"

"You've known him longer than anybody here, except Fury. Does he always do stupid crap like this?"

"You mean sacrifice himself for the greater good? Yeah, habitually. Unless he's the greater good. He's got a bit of a mental deficiency when it comes to thinking about himself."

"So we're gonna have to get used to coming and sitting vigils like this, huh?"

"He doesn't think anyone actually cares about him. He just figures him laying on the bed is better than anyone else being there."

"And why the hell does he think that? Any ideas? He was talking crazy when we were in the tower; first he started talking in Basque, Jarvis said it was, then he thought he was talking to someone named Barney, and then he said that the beatings would stop soon. Know anything about that, Deluca?"

"…Visiting hours are over, Mr. Stark."

"Of course they are."

* * *

Jerking back to awareness with a hard shock, Barton found himself face to face with a pure blue line of energy snaking near his face. Jumping to his feet and backing away, he breathed hard through his nose and followed the line of magic. It was creeping towards the metal chair in the middle of the room, and he growled deep in his throat, marching towards the center of the floor, placing himself between the bright blue tendril and the chair.

He wasn't an idiot; he knew what happened the last time he'd remembered something good, something worth living for. He knew his survival wasn't just about him this time, it was about everyone else. He didn't know what could happen if those lines made it to the chair, if what was left of Loki's corruption managed to destroy him again. He just knew that his team, his home, everything he cared about protecting would be in the crosshairs. And he would not let that happen.

Not again.

Steeling himself, Clint inhaled sharply and squeezed his eyes shut, reaching through the mist mentally, sorting through the stream to find that one memory, the one that would never abandon him, the one he turned to in the darkest nights.

He found it, grabbed hold of it, and poured it through the hallways, the white light eclipsing the blue, fading it, washing it out against the red marble. He felt the warmth of the memory infuse him, burning him with delicious heat, and he threw his arms open wide as he fell to his knees, his face to the clear, starry sky that always held dominion over the center of his mind.

* * *

"You going to stop bouncing anytime soon, Barton?" the other man asked, and Clint tossed him a wry smile.

"As soon as you get a prettier face, Jameson," he responded glibly, and the other man grinned widely.

They were waiting behind a dark curtain at the far end of a metal stage, a loud voice booming from the other side of the fabric. Clad in their dress uniforms, the two men were waiting rather impatiently for their names to be called. Jameson was staring straight ahead, his forty years wearing the dress blues well, his fingers dancing on his thighs, the white gloves a stark contrast to his pants.

Then he was gone, whisking through the curtain, a few words exchanged before there was a loud round of applause and a few whistles. Clint inhaled deeply and tried to breathe slowly; he was twenty, for crying out loud. He didn't need to be jumping up and down like a little kid. He had a reputation to maintain, after all.

There was a clicking behind him, and Barton turned quickly, blinking at the woman who had sidled up behind him, almost unnoticed, her high heels the only thing that alerted him of her presence. She was in her late thirties, maybe early forties, and there was a blue pin featuring the Rod of Asclepius on her lapel. Frowning slightly at it, Clint couldn't hide his slight disgust.

"You're a doctor?" he asked needlessly, and she leveled a harsh glare at him.

"Wow. You're damned observant. You must have, like, amazing vision or something," she responded sarcastically, and Barton blinked, both surprised and amused by her response.

Understanding he was in err, he held out his hand and stood straight.

"Apologies, doctor. Clint Barton, almost-agent," he introduced himself, and she shook his hand rapidly; she had a tight grip.

"Doctor Ann Deluca, and that's enough of the stupid societal requirements of our time. Swear to God, I'll be so happy when everyone just starts punching each other as a greeting." At Clint's shocked look, she snapped, "What? It's a better measure, anyway, how someone takes a punch instead of a handshake. And it's good for business. Fury done out there, yet? Need to chew his ass out for the stupid bastards he tried to put in my ward."

Glancing over his shoulder, Clint said, "Ah, no. He's got one more left." Glancing at him with a little more interest, Deluca abruptly shifted stances and said, "Oh. So you're the one everyone's been talking about. Youngest SHIELD recruit in history, I hear. How'd you get to this point? I haven't even given you a physical, yet."

Barton shrugged and said, "It was Mitchell's idea. They needed to get a move on the paperwork, or something."

His tone was low at the end of his sentence, hating the reminder of his old life, hating the memory of what he'd done.

His momentary despair must've shown on his face, because Ann abruptly said, "Don't think about it, kid. You made mistakes, you put some red on your ledger. So? This is your chance to wipe it out."

Blinking, Barton didn't even have a chance to respond, because his name was abruptly being called. He wiped the cringe off his face as he realized it was his full name.

"Clinton Francis Barton."

Giving the woman one last curious look, he stepped beyond the curtain and walked professionally to the side of the podium, coming to parade rest beside the director of SHIELD.

Fury nodded to him once and then turned back to the crowd of a thousand or so military personnel crammed into the auditorium, all of them techs, field agents, handlers, and other lower ranking members of the organization. The director had a severe dislike of brass stifling the easy flow of camaraderie in his units, so he tended to bar them from assemblies like this one. Still, Clint was abruptly grateful for the dress gloves that were faithfully absorbing the sweat from his palms. One would think that after having been betrayed by the only family he'd ever known, working as a mercenary, and illegally doing half a tour with the Army, being honored in a crowded hall would be a breeze. It was decidedly not.

"When I first met Clint Barton, he was languishing in the brig, awaiting a court martial for lying about his age on his military paperwork. I asked him what he would do if he was given the chance to start over, to start fresh. He looked me dead in the eye – yes, I said eye, singular – and told me that he sure as hell wouldn't spend it talking to my blind ass," Fury deadpanned, and there were appreciative chuckles throughout the room.

Barton thought about blushing, but mentally shrugged; it was the truth, after all.

"So we did our little song and dance, worked our little magic, and lo and behold, it turns out he's not too averse to my ass after all." There was louder laughter here, and one brazen tech shouted, "Don't ask, don't tell!"

Clint couldn't stop the smirk from twitching his lips while Fury pointed a finger in the general direction of the teach and said, "Hey, drop the soap on your own time, Williams."

Barton's smirk turned into a full-on grin as the crowd guffawed and catcalled, and he glanced at his shoes, shining them mentally to get his rebellious facial muscles under control.

"Anyway, Agent Mitchell has spent the last six months working with Barton, and it's paid off. Most of you are aware he's the youngest agent to complete the qualifications of general SHIELD acceptance, much less the field agent qualifications. And he broke half the standing training records, in the process. Many of you know that he's a talented marksman, recently determined by our researchers to be the best in the world. He's got a lot of nicknames floating around here, Cupid being the one I hear a lot. I like that."

His stomach dropping into his feet, Clint turned horrified eyes to his superior, praying, hoping…no, they wouldn't possibly do that to him!

A single corner of his lips twitching up, Fury turned to Barton and held out one hand to shake his while holding out his badge with the other. The just-about-there-agent hesitated a split second before he did his part in the ceremony, shaking the director's hand and accepting the new badge with his other. Fury held his gaze and was silent for a moment, letting Clint sweat just a little bit more before he turned back to the podium and addressed the crowd again.

"It's a distinct pleasure and a great pride to confer upon Clinton Barton the status of Field Agent, effective immediately. Codename: Hawkeye."

The hall erupted in applause and shouts as Clint shook Fury's hand again, his relief visible on his face. He turned back to the crowd, grinning widely, and his thumb ran over the words etched into the metal of his badge, reading the lettering with the pad of his finger, even through the fabric of the glove.

HAWKEYE

This was his new family, this was his new life. He was finally, truly home.

* * *

Alarms were blaring and people were shouting and he couldn't even breathe through all the damned noise. But he fought his way through, blinking at the bright light above him, desperate to see something other than the blue that had threatened to consume his mind. But the memory of the birth of his life's purpose had burned it away like morning fog in the rising sun, and he stubbornly held on.

The noise died slightly, the movement slowing, and the light abruptly dimmed. His gaze darted around furiously, placing names and faces, finally finding the one he wanted. She wasn't far, as she never was, not after Siberia. She could read his need, his desperation, and she pushed through the nurses still milling around him, ignoring their shouted frustrations. She grabbed his hand and held it tight, his fingers wrapping around hers.

"Natasha?" he asked softly, praying the nightmare was over, desperate for a world without glow rods of destiny and flying whales with razor sharp teeth.

She nodded once, her red hair bouncing, and she leaned over him, protecting him, knowing everything he wanted to hear.

"I'm here. The team's fine, Loki's secure, the Tesseract is secure, and the helicarrier is still in the air. Coulson and the director are coordinating FEMA with the clean up, and they're thinking that it's less than two thousand dead and only about five thousand injured. Speaking of, you're going to be fine; medical jargon aside, you'll be walking in eight weeks, shooting in ten; your leg fracture was fairly hairline, and your back and collarbone are infected, so that's slowing you down. You've been out for two days. Also, don't scare me like that again, you ungrateful bastard. I ought to cut your heart out with a spoon," she growled lowly, and he gave her a faint grin, one she could barely see through the oxygen mask that covered half his face.

She cocked her head at his movements and leaned in closer as he squeezed her hand gently. He fixed his stormy eyes on her green orbs and blinked sleepily, the world pulling at him.

Darkness started to roll over his vision, but he managed to hold it off long enough to whisper, "Now you sound like you."

* * *

End Chapter Nineteen


	20. Chapter 20

Title: Bruises – Chapter Twenty

Author: Lucky Gun

Summary: Because Loki's possession of one of the sharpest minds in SHIELD wasn't easy. In fact, it barely worked at all. A better take on Clint's forced defection, return to the Avengers, and the aftermath. Contains whump, language, torture, and all the horrors of a POW. AU.

A/N: Writing near the end of a story is like trying to drive through a minefield. Thank God for my beta, because I keep hitting wall after wall after wall on this.

* * *

He defied common medical wisdom, as was his usual. He always did heal fast, but when he had a more pressing reason to be off the ward, fast tended to be too slow for him. The first time they found him out of his bed, he was curled up in a ball at the top of a maintenance ladder, a shiv crafted out of a part of a broken lunch tray in his palm. The second time, drugged out of his mind and fighting a raging fever, he'd disappeared for five hours, and no amount of searching by the Avengers on board and the medical staff could locate him. Then Natasha, Coulson, and Tony had returned from a visit to the Stark Tower in Manhattan, and the three had headed immediately for the training rooms. They'd found him at the archery range, huddled behind one of the targets, his bow and arrows wrapped in his arms, rambling in Arabic as he stared glassy-eyed at the ceiling. Disoriented as he was, he fought them tooth and nail when they took his weapons, finally losing the fight when Natasha had performed what Tony had affectionately and only slightly fearfully called a Vulcan neck pinch.

After his fever dropped, he'd disappeared for the last time from medical, and Deluca had let him. She'd spent enough time patching him up over the course of the years to know his habits and his biology. He was healing quick, and part of her thought it was possibly left over from Thor's intervention in his mind. But she didn't give it too much attention. He was healing, physically, at least, and she knew his team would take good care of him. So she had no qualms about him taking off.

The fact that a bottle of her favorite rum had appeared on her desk the hour he left medical was completely irrelevant. After all, CMO's could not be bought.

* * *

"How many agents are we still looking for?" Steve asked as he leaned over the conference table, staring at the jerky camera footage that he had probably memorized by this time.

Coulson rubbed at his eyes and tossed a manila folder on the table and said, "Six, we think. The systems are still so fried we can't get an accurate reading on how many people were with Barton when he infiltrated the carrier. We have conflicting reports of eight, ten, twelve, and fifteen, and we're operating on the larger number for safety. We know that five are dead, one is injured, and one fell from the carrier. Tracking the movements as best we can with the fragments of camera data we can still access, we think there were either five or six left on board after Loki took off. We've flushed out two, and we'd rather err on the side of caution with this. Until we can manually scan everyone's retinal ID, we've got to rely on the crew to help us sniff them out."

Nodding slightly, Steve asked, "Any updates on the vandalism? Anything new?"

Nodding his head, Phil leaned back a bit and stretched; apparently five hours in the same chair could take it out of you.

"We have surveillance on his old quarters and his locker, and there haven't been any new issues there. Some of the crew has found new threats in other parts of the ship, same wording, same handwriting. Given that we haven't released any information on the original attacks, they're not copycats. We managed to get Interpol to drop its warrant, but Germany isn't budging. Director Fury used an emergency government grant to buy off the bounty hunters' guild, so at least that's not a concern at the moment."

Thor shook his head and interrupted, "I cannot understand you Midgardians. While we on Asgard would share some distrust for the archer, we would challenge him to the Holmgang and give him the chance to reclaim his honor. Do your people not understand the concept of self-vindication?"

Steve shook his head and said, "We got rid of duels and honor killings awhile ago, Thor. They were seen as too barbaric, too uncertain. Strength should not be the deciding factor in a situation like this."

Tossing a frown over at the super soldier, Thor refuted, "Strength of arms is not the only merit we judge on my world. Strength of character, of will, of battle skill, of memory – there are many different facets of the Holmgang that your world has lost over the last millennia."

Coulson tipped back in his chair and stared hard at the alien, his face unreadable as his eyes darkened with thought. He was distracted when one of the resident geniuses in the room cleared his throat loudly from his area of the table.

After catching the agent's attention, Tony blinked down at the data scrolling over his own part of the table and asked, "You said something a minute ago about manually taking the retinal scans of everyone on board. So that's, what, five thousand troops? Give or take a few hundred? And about half a million hiding spots here on the helicarrier, right? And no one can explain to me why we're flying around instead of sitting this thing in the water and going through everyone by hand?"

Fury walked into the conference room at that moment, catching the last part of Stark's sentence. He leveled an impatient look in his direction and crossed his arms.

"I've explained that to you, twice. We are at DEFCON three at the moment, and we are not allowed to be a stationary target. Not while the UN has any say on it. The fact that we possibly have half a dozen magically brainwashed agents on board my ship doesn't seem to be making them lose any sleep. So it's our job to make sure they stay well rested, according to the Council," he groused, and Thor sighed deeply as he paced the back of the room.

Bruce dropped the paper he was reading and glanced around the group, eyes concerned behind his glasses.

"Speaking of, has anyone seen Barton lately? He's been missing for a few days now. We haven't told him about any of this. Shouldn't he know that there's a warrant out for his arrest along with a half million euro reward for his capture posted by the German military, and the entire world is trying to collect on it?" the doctor asked, almost rhetorically.

Natasha was sitting silently at the end of the table, listening quietly to the proceedings, her face betraying nothing, though the corner of her eye twitched slightly.

"Agent Barton was released from the infirmary, granted it was AMA; he's not missing, Stark. He's in a corner somewhere, licking his wounds, trying to figure this out from his side. You think he doesn't know about any of this? He probably heard me talk about it back at the tower three weeks ago, even though he was unconscious," Phil berated, and Tony turned a hard glare at him.

"We're supposed to be a team, and you're supposed to be the man's handler, Coulson. I don't understand why everyone is so nonchalant about this. We've got credible death threats against one of our own, and we're sitting around with our thumbs up our butts while Barton does his Ringling Brothers thing somewhere we can't protect him," he snapped.

Blinking, Natasha finally said, "He doesn't need protection, Stark."

Steve and Bruce looked up from their reading as Tony surged to his feet and leveled a finger in her direction.

"Yes, he does. He protected us the whole damn time, fighting Loki with everything he had and even some stuff he didn't. Even if he doesn't need protection, he deserves it. We ought to be a second skin on him right now, the Trojans of his life," he cracked, his serious words dissolving into a ridiculously off-topic drawl.

There was the slightest chuckle from somewhere above them, and the occupants in the room zeroed in on the sound and moved towards the table, gazes searching.

Her lips quirking slightly, Natasha finally raised her eyes up towards the ceiling, her focus training on the vent hidden in the paneling above the middle of the table where she knew her partner was. Unnoticed until then, the rest of the group became aware of the fact that the airflow grate had been removed at some point. Peering out from the gloom were two stormy blue eyes, the light barely catching them. It was Clint, laying on his stomach, resting his chin on his crossed arms, his gaze focused on nothing as he listened to the conversations below him. In the soft illumination that reached him, the people in the room could see he had his regular communicator in one ear and he was monitoring a frequency scanner in the other. There was a glint of something metal in his hand, and his quiver was just visible on his still-healing back. They had no doubt his bow was somewhere very close by.

Even recovering from being half dead, Clint was still protecting them; it was his job, his only job, one of two things he let himself care about anymore.

Steve grinned up at him and Tony just shook his head, passing his hand over his face. Bruce smirked slightly and dropped his eyes back to his paperwork, while Thor just cocked his head at the man's location. Fury pulled his attention from his agent currently doing an HVAC technician impression and looked at Coulson as he stood and walked over to him, conversing with him in low tones.

Natasha spared her two supervisors a quick glance before she looked back up at Clint. He didn't care that he'd blown his cover; after all, he'd been there for four hours, watching their comings and goings, keeping track of everyone else over the comm system. He knew it was dangerous to be around them when he had a target painted on his back, but he didn't have a choice. Mentally, he couldn't be anywhere else. He had to protect them. And they seemed to realize he needed to do it at a distance.

Well, most of them.

"Barton, you horse's ass! How long were you going to let us ramble on about this while you hid up there?" Tony snapped, his words lacking any bit of heat.

But Clint let his eyes slide shut and he relaxed into a light doze. He didn't figure the team would be surprised; Barton had been doing in three weeks what most people wouldn't do in ten, pushing himself through a month's worth of midnight rehab sessions in less than two weeks.

"Back to the main issue, here. We've got five thousand troops to manually scan, we can't land even to make repairs, and it all boils down to an increasingly dangerous security situation. We don't have too many options here. We need a game plan," Steve said, eyes darting upwards.

"Deluca gave me a warning that the Council is pushing for a forceful debrief, too. I don't know how much longer she can stall them," Bruce added softly, avoiding looking in the direction of the man in the ceiling, wincing a bit as he pared down her more colorful language to something a little more appropriate.

Before anyone could toss out any ideas, at the sound of squawking in his earpiece. Clint dropped out of the vent and landed hard on the table. His eyes were wide and his hands scrambled for the bow slung over his shoulder. He rolled off the table to the floor and half limped, half jogged out the single entry to the room. He knew the others were following; he could hear them, and a quick count of the steps confirmed that even Fury and Coulson were hot on his heels. Clint said nothing to them as he rushed down the corridor as quickly as he could manage, his steps a staggered run as he pushed away the pain. He pressed one hand to the frequency scanner in his left ear and glanced up at the white markings on the bulkheads as he went by them, taking sharp turns without a word of warning.

Within a minute, they found themselves spilling out of a door into the bright sunlight of the lower flight deck. Whipping his head around, Clint spun, the rest of them following his lead as they heard the high pitched whine of a quinjet's engines winding up about three hundred feet from them on the upper flight deck. Cursing, Natasha reached for her guns while Steve glanced around for something to throw. Bruce clenched his fists tight as he tried to determine whether to let Hulk come out and play, and Thor held out his hand, calling his hammer to him. Tony turned back to the door, contemplating running and grabbing his armor. Fury and Coulson were both shouting into their earpieces, barking orders.

Clint, however, just reached back and pulled an arrow from his quiver and strung it, wincing as he started to pull the bowstring. Sweat broke out on his forehead as his back screamed in protest, his left side stretching at the movement. Invisibly, blood started to seep through the dozens of stitches all over his body, soaking parts of his black tee shirt. His arms trembled as he pulled the string halfway, pausing for a second to inhale sharply.

The sound of his harsh breathing simultaneously caught the attention of the entire team, and they whirled, freezing when they saw his movements. Clint ignored them and finished pulling back the bowstring, flinching as he felt something unnatural pull in his shoulder blade. But he trained his eyes on the twin sweet spots on the quinjet, both a meter from the turbines, the panels covering the fuse clusters for each engine obvious to him. He had to take them both out; he knew from experience, some of it recent, that it was possible to safely land one of the jets with a blown engine. All they had to do was get it moving enough to drop off the side of the helicarrier and they could be home free.

So he lined up his shot and focused, tracking the wind, the slight forward momentum the quinjet already had, compensating for the slight shake in his hands, and released the bolt. He didn't wait for his body to give him hell and immediately reached back to grab the next arrow in his quiver. Barton blinked back the black dots that swarmed his vision as he strained whatever wound he'd reopened in his shoulder and aligned his second shot. He actually staggered back a foot, almost dropping his bow, as his side gushed heat and his left leg throbbed as he shifted to accommodate the pain.

But he couldn't let them get away. Who knows what danger his team would be in then?

So he forced his body to move, demanding its obedience, and he loosed the second projectile. Both struck their marks perfectly, sparks shooting out of the camouflaged boxes, the engines abruptly losing power. As the quinjet dropped two feet back to the deck, dozens of guards swarming it and forcing the entry ramp open, Barton felt hands pulling his bow from his lax fingers and murmurs near his ear.

He zoned out as he watched the movement from the upper deck, eyes clouding as he heard the telltale pepper of gunplay. The cockpit windows of the jet lit up from within as guns on both sides discharged, shouts accompanying the sudden splatter of blood against the inside of the glass. Clint felt hands pulling him away, back towards the doors, and he went, unresisting, his ears ringing with the constant sound of coded orders and static. His mind was fuzzy, and he felt like he was walking through thick fog. He heard distant reassurances from voices he couldn't care to name as they repeated the same words: it wasn't his fault, he did what he could, he was a hero.

But he couldn't unsee the crimson spray, and he couldn't unhear the dying screams of the possessed agents as they committed suicide by cop.

Everything he'd been working towards since he'd awoken on the helicarrier was gone in that instant. The consequences to himself be damned, he had been hell bent on two things: protecting the team, and finding the blue eyed tell of the demigod's influence. He had been pushing himself to the extreme, overcoming everything thrown at him, beating every odd in the hope that he could find the embedded agents and rescue them from Loki's poisonous grasp.

And he knew, in a way, he had. Given the choice between the Asgardian's continued control and his own death, he'd chosen death and almost received it. He knew the other agents would feel the same, because he knew almost everyone on the boat, at least to some extent. They were patriots, through and through, swearing to live and breathe and die for what was right.

With a dark heart, Barton realized he had held them to their oath.

* * *

The team stood quietly around the waiting room, their eyes trained on the door that led to the soundproof examination room. It was quiet in the hallway, maybe a bit too quiet, filled with a silence that not even Tony was willing to break. Instead, he paced, and no one paid him any attention; after all, it wasn't out of his character to be incapable of standing still.

It was, however, slightly out of his character to engage in openly suicidal behavior, which was what he appeared to do when he changed the direction he was going and stepped right into Natasha's personal space.

She looked up at him, eyes dry but ringed with red, and there wasn't any venom in her voice as she halfheartedly threatened, "I am armed, you know."

He nodded slightly and cast a glance over his shoulder at the rest of the team, calculating distance and acoustics silently as he shifted. There was a marked soberness in the air, one that was easy to understand but difficult to breathe through. Coulson was standing at the far end of the hall, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed and his eyes down. He'd brought them the report only minutes before: five SHIELD field agents, their bodies all bearing the same signs of malnutrition and dehydration Barton's had, all in the quinjet, which is nowhere they should've been.

And all dead.

None of them were fools; they all knew what Clint had been doing. Ever since his disappearance from the medical bay, the team had only seen him a handful of times, always from a distance, and he never spoke to them. He was shielding them with his absence while protecting them from five hundred yards. Only Natasha seemed to break through whatever mental barrier he'd formed, but they spoke in Russian over the open comms, something that no one else on the team understood, something that Jarvis would be able to translate if he'd been uploaded to the helicarrier. But the AI wouldn't make any difference, really. It was obvious what the two were speaking of.

On her side, it was reassurances of trust, of faith, of his innocence in the whole matter. It was reprimands of his actions in signing himself out of the infirmary against medical advice and pushing himself too hard in rehab. It was an unending stream of normalcy, the only thing she could give him without looking into his eyes and hearing her own heart break.

On his side, it was nothing.

He only ever answered her in quick, clipped tones: "Да. Нет. Я не знаю."

Unsurprisingly, her partner's responses of yes, no, and I don't know weren't very satisfying to the Russian spy, and Tony had caught her destroying a punching bag on more than one occasion. They'd come to an agreement, the Iron Man and the Black Widow, regarding the Hawk. For some reason, Tony had found himself taken under the protective wing of the archer. Maybe it was because he was the only other simply human Avenger on the team. Maybe it was because, for some reason, Clint had realized what Tony had: they had similar lives, similar nightmares, similar slices of humanity. They both wore their sarcasm and humor like a shield to protect what little of themselves the world at large hadn't yet destroyed.

So Tony and Natasha had decided that she wouldn't kill him and he wouldn't hit on her, and they'd both be there for Clint whenever he decided to be Barton again.

"Yeah, I see that you've got two of them. We need to talk," he murmured lowly, and she cast him an incredulous stare. Waving away her look, he kept his voice low as he said, "Yeah, I know. Place and time and something about propriety. Jarvis translated what Barton said back in the tower. You never asked. Did you want to know?"

She said nothing, and Tony felt the strain of the day pull at him as he snapped quietly, "Stop acting like a teenager, dammit! 'Oh, look at me! I'm a master assassin! I'm all broody and Russian! I'm going to slit Misha Collins' throat because he prances around in a gay trench coat making fluffy puppy noises!' Will you stop it already?"

Natasha blinked at him, and the genius mentally reviewed how many shots of espresso he'd chugged in the previous twelve hours; it was in the double digits.

"I already talked to Jarvis, Stark. He was begging for something to stop, saying he wouldn't survive. He was asking for forgiveness from his brother," she said, tone pitched to carry to him only, and he nodded and added, "His brother, Barney Barton. The same Barney he thought he was talking to afterwards. The same Barney he was asking when the beatings would stop, when they would leave again. He's not okay, Stalin. We've got to figure out something else. We were giving it time, letting him track down Loki's other flying monkeys, but they're dead. And he's not okay. The Council is going to destroy his mind trying to figure him out. We have to give them another option."

His voice rose a bit near the end of his rant, and Thor and Coulson exchanged a glance.

"We have spoken on this, the Man of Fury and myself. We believe we have come up with an acceptable solution," the Asgardian said as he took a few steps forward, drawing everyone's attention.

Steve cast a glance at Banner as they both stood, the scientist frowning at the alien.

"An alternative solution to the forceful debrief? Let's hear it," the super soldier encouraged.

Phil spoke up, "Thor believes a trip to his home planet is a good idea."

The dead silence in the room was heavier than it had been previously, and Tony's eyebrows met his hairline.

"We're going to take a field trip on the Magic School Bus, Ms. Frizzle?" he asked rhetorically, and both Thor and Steve exchanged a quizzical look as Banner shook his head slightly, a small smile on his face.

"We have mindhealers in my city, and it is safe, secure, peaceful. The war with Jotenheim was avoided a year ago, and Bifrost is almost entirely rebuilt. There is no calmer realm for the Hawk to regain his wings, if he so wishes," Thor explained.

Before anyone could respond, the entry they'd previously been focused on opened, and Deluca walked out, shutting the solid steel door behind her. She held up a hand to forestall the questions that were about to spill through the room and took a deep breath.

"He's fine. Tore a few stitches in his back and side, stressed his fracture a bit, but he hasn't put himself behind in his recovery. He didn't say a word while I was patching him up, though, except to refuse an analgesic and visitors. What the hell happened out there? Why did you drag him in here right as I got the call for five body bags upstairs?" she asked, curiosity more than obvious in her voice.

Coulson cleared his throat a bit and answered, "Loki's moles tried to take off in one of the quinjets, and Barton stopped them without deadly force. The security team engaged them and there was a shootout. No survivors."

Pursing her lips, Deluca just said, "Shit."

Quiet for a few moments, Natasha finally nodded and said, "We won't give him a choice, Thor. Let's go to Asgard." Turning to Deluca, she asked, "How long until he's cleared for field duty?"

Eyes hardening, Ann checked, "Wait a minute. You're taking him to the home planet of the man who destroyed who he was? You're taking him to the planet _where Loki is imprisoned_? And you think this is actually a good idea?"

Tony shook his head and said, "We don't have a choice. The Council isn't going to let up after this. Forget how long until he's cleared for field duty; how long can you hold those bastards off?"

Her jaw tight, the doctor crossed her arms and allowed, "Maybe two weeks, on the outside. They've got a few other things on their plate right now, so they're a bit distracted. I still don't think this is the best idea in the world, just for the frigging record."

Steve said, "It'll have to be enough time. Dr. Banner, can you and Dr. Deluca coordinate Barton's records so we can keep track of his healing progress while on Asgard?"

Nodding, Bruce replied, "Shouldn't be a problem, so long as he's not suffering any lingering effects from the concussion."

Deluca shook her head in a negative, and Coulson nodded as he turned to leave.

"It's settled, then. Two weeks until you head offplanet. Better pack a toothbrush," he called over his shoulder.

The team coalesced and started murmuring to each other as they followed, their voices low. Natasha glanced over at the door as she walked away, desire clashing with respect before she finally dropped her eyes and continued down the hall. Banner nodded once towards Deluca with a quick promise of coordination while Steve spoke to Thor regarding their method of travel. Tony hesitated as the group continued on, their voices and footsteps growing dim, and he turned to Ann, who was guarding the examination room like a pit bull.

They stared at each other for a moment, eyes clashing, before Deluca finally shook her head and walked away, her steps heavy. Tony watched her go and edged towards the door, his hand reaching for door handle. But then something caught his ears, a soft sound that was just on the edge of hearing, and he paused, his fingers an inch from the knob.

He stood silently for five minutes, gaze focused on nothing, his breaths coming slow and steady through his parted lips as he listened. Then he swallowed hard, turned, and walked away, mind running over everything he felt he ought to pack, forcing himself to forget everything he'd heard through the supposedly soundproof door.

Cussing, screaming, glass breaking, the repeated thuds of fists against metal.

And the heart wrenching sobs that echoed over all of it.

* * *

End Chapter Twenty


	21. Epilogue

Title: Bruises – Epilogue

Author: Lucky Gun

Summary: Because Loki's possession of one of the sharpest minds in SHIELD wasn't easy. In fact, it barely worked at all. A better take on Clint's forced defection, return to the Avengers, and the aftermath. Contains whump, language, torture, and all the horrors of a POW. AU.

A/N: Well, kiddoes, this is it! Hope you've enjoyed the ride so far, because I sure as hell have enjoyed writing it and hearing from all y'all in the process. I've had some great reviewers on this story and it's been an absolute pleasure to hear from all of you. I hope this tale has been worth the read. If you think it has, please add me to your Author Alerts to be notified when I start posting Scars, the sequel to this story, a concept created by Rikkamaru and beta read by my awesome best friend Spenchester. Please, please, PLEASE leave a review, as I'm hanging on y'all's every word!

* * *

He scrambled along the vent quickly, not even bothering with stealth as his vision spun and his ears rang. His left leg burned as he forced himself along the metal, but he continued on. His right hand was wrapped around the back of Natasha's jacket, and he hauled her along unceremoniously. He kept falling against the side of the vent as his balance twisted in his head, his equilibrium temporarily destroyed. He could barely hear the echoing whoops and hollers somewhere behind him, and he did his best to tune it out.

"Why you running, Barton? Come back and fight like a man, you sorry sack of shit!"

"Come on, you pussy! You think anyone even trusts you anymore, you traitor?"

"Keep running, you asshole! Hope you run off the edge of the damned ship and splat like a bug against a fucking sidewalk, you son of a bitch!"

Grinding his teeth, Clint moved down the vents, his chest screaming. He'd just finished recovering from the pneumonia that had compromised his lungs, and holding his breath for four minutes against the smoke that poured into the vent system from his room while dragging along his unconscious partner was something he was sure Deluca would disapprove of.

As he imagined the ass chewing he'd get for this, Clint abruptly found himself falling through a particularly weak point in the bottom of the vent, taking Natasha with him. A sharp chemical smell played against the inside of Barton's nose as he instinctively inhaled a bit, and they suddenly broke through the surface of the pool that was adjacent to the helicarrier's gym. The water was icy cold, maybe fifty five degrees, and it shocked the rest of the air from his lungs. Disoriented, he accidentally breathed in some of the water, swallowing a mouthful at the same time, choking. Still confused from the effects of the stun grenade, he couldn't tell up from down, and the panic that ate at him was a hungry, vicious animal.

Then, abruptly, he felt himself pulled bodily from the water and dropped onto the hard concrete poolside. Shivering, he coughed and gagged as he rolled onto his hands and knees, nausea tipping his stomach as his balance continued to shift. He looked up as he tried desperately to breathe, catching a flash of red hair through the water still burning his eyes, and attempted to move towards her.

"Easy, Legolas. She's all right. Breathe, buddy."

Accepting the words as truth as he identified the voice as one he trusted, he closed his eyes and finished coughing up the small amount of water he'd inhaled. He felt something heavy, warm, and dry drape over his frame, and he didn't care how childish he looked as he grabbed the fabric with one hand and bundled it around himself. Trembling as his soaked clothes sucked the heat from his body, he locked his eyes on Natasha again, relieved to find her alive, conscious, and gripping her own thick towel with the same possessive hold he had on his as shivers wracked her own body.

He blinked twice, she blinked once, he shook his head, and she blinked three times. He dropped his eyes for half a second before raising them again, and her eyes shifted left two millimeters before refocusing on him. He blinked twice and winced before she nodded.

"Has anyone ever told you two how annoying that is? Geesh, get a room already!"

Ending the silent conversation with his partner, Clint looked up and found they were surrounded by a few Avengers. Tony was leaning against the wall next to them, his hands in his pockets, looking for all the world an uncaring billionaire. Steve and Thor were standing next to the two assassins, dripping wet, both frustratingly unaffected by the freezing cold water. Hulk was somewhere nearby though not in the room; Barton could hear his howls.

"We tracked you through your comms system after the explosion. What happened?" Steve asked as he offered Natasha a hand up; surprisingly, she accepted it.

Clint allowed her to help him up as well before he answered, his teeth chattering slightly as the adrenaline started to wear off.

"We were cleaning our weapons," he started, and Tony seemed to physically bite back an innuendo at that. "Some people got past the security and forced their way in. We fought a few of them off and then someone set off a stun grenade; it blinded me and knocked Tasha out. It caught my quiver on fire and ignited one of the incendiary arrowheads. Then they locked the door, thinking we'd suffocate in the smoke, I guess. Made it out through the lower ventilation system."

Thor growled, "Some of your people have no concept of honor." Nodding, Tony said, "You're not wrong, Beach Boy. Any idea who it was?"

Shaking his head, Clint ignored the cold drops of water that slipped down his face.

"Faces were covered, nondescript uniforms, no nametags. They didn't speak until after the flashbang, so my memory on their voices is suspect. Suffice to say, judging by what they did and what they said afterwards, I don't think they like me."

Natasha bit the inside of her cheek as Banner walked in, more human than inhuman.

"Well, they got away, whoever they were. They had split by the time we got there, and Hulk couldn't sniff them out; the smoke was too thick. We're back to square one, I think," he informed, his doctor's eyes taking in the soaked team and the very smug Tony to the side.

"We can't sit around and wait for them to try again. We have to move up the timetable. We have to leave for Asgard. Now. Coulson and Fury can spend the next two weeks flushing them out," Steve said, and Clint blinked at the super soldier, confusion on his face.

"Wait, what? Asgard? Who's going to Asgard? Us?" he asked, shocked, and Steve nodded.

"It's the only way to get the Council off your back, Barton. It was this or a forceful debrief. We thought we had another week before we needed to leave, but this attack changes things," Tony informed.

Clint's teeth clicked as he shut his jaw, and he dropped his gaze, swallowing back the feeling of his life being decided for him yet again. It was growing all too familiar of a trend. But he kept his mouth shut and followed orders, as usual. A security team came in and escorted them to the showers, then to the armory for weapons, then to the quartermaster for supplies. The archer shuffled along silently, his eyes down, his features stoic. A few members of the team tried to draw him into conversation, but he ignored them.

All the could think about was that he was going to Asgard, where Loki was, and he prayed to any deity that cared to listen that he would never see the demigod again. Then they were airborne in a quinjet, flying through the air, the team still trying to get him to talk. But he just sat in the back of the jet, his weapons on his back, his duffel in his arms. He couldn't even think about speaking. If he opened his mouth, Clint was honestly, truly afraid what would come out of it.

He'd cuss out Thor for even offering the trip.

He'd threaten Tony with bodily arm for calling him Legolas yet again.

He'd distract Bruce with whatever method he could figure while he stole back his medical chart.

He'd tell Steve that he didn't care how much the soldier still didn't trust him, he'd proven himself a hundred times, and he was sick of the self-doubt the other man still incited in him.

And then he'd crawl on his hands and knees to Natasha and beg her not to make him go.

But they were in a remote, secluded location almost before he could blink, and then they were gathered in a loose circle, Thor shouting to the sky, his face at ease as he anticipated the trip home. Clint cast his eyes to the team, catching their gazes, his desperation clear. He would do anything to avoid going to Asgard.

They saw it as safety, as a calm, peaceful place for him to regain his bearings.

All he would be able to see is the palace where Loki grew up, the hallway where he practiced his magic, the city streets he still had claim to, even as a disgraced, imprisoned prince.

The bile was up his throat and out of his mouth before he could recognize it, and he doubled over as he threw up, his side aching as he wrapped his arms around his chest. The mess splattered to the dusty ground just as the world started streaming around them. They flew through space and time, their clothes flapping in some otherworldly breeze. Then they landed hard within a bright gold observatory, people all around, and Clint finished throwing up, moisture pricking the corners of his eyes.

He glanced up and saw people he didn't know dressed like Loki, disgust and shock visible on their faces.

"For the frigging record, I agree with Deluca," Clint murmured as he stood straighter.

And deep within the still-crumbled halls of his mind, beneath hot ash and ground stone and sharp splinters, a single tendril of blue energy started to brighten and pulse.

_And grow._

* * *

End Bruises


End file.
